


V for Victory

by Gunney



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gunney/pseuds/Gunney
Summary: Set after the end of Season 5. Following the disappearance of Sara Lance, and failed attempts at rescuing her, the team decides to respond to a major fault in the timeline. When half the team is stranded on the ground in 1940 Belgium, they do what they can to make the best of a bad situation. Complete!!I welcome reviews!
Relationships: John Constantine/Zari Tomaz | Zari Tarazi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Part 1

Chapter 1

John charged across the forest floor. The carbine slung across his back felt weightless with the adrenaline cruising through his veins. The child clinging to his neck, the rest of her weight supported by his arms, barely weighed enough to slow him. Behind him he could hear pounding feet, heaving lungs, voices shouting breathless encouragement. Further away..shouts, the sharp pops of gunfire, the crank and groan and clack-clack of a tank. 

They trampled across the damp, thick carpet of autumn leaves covering the forest floor, the darkness covering their flight, covering their destination, giving him some small hope that they would make it. A hand grabbed his forearm and yanked him to the side and John pivoted around the tree he hadn’t spotted in the gloom. 

Nate brushed past him and skidded on the soft ground cover, throwing the camouflage netting to the side and uncovering the cellar entrance. He threw the doors open, well oiled hinges barely whispering. Nate took the child from John’s arms, then both men stood either side of the entrance while Ava ran inside, lighting an oil lamp deep in the recesses of the shelter. Women, children, a few men, thirty souls in all clomped down the earthen stairs and into the depths of the earth where the journey would continue for a quarter mile underground. 

Zari came up behind John. Her hands automatically claimed his shoulder and arm. John knew she was there and immediately sent her into the tunnel with a palm gently pushing her back. Behrad brought up the rear. 

“That’s it. That’s all of ‘em.” He announced in a breathless whisper. 

“In you go, mate.” John said, then nodded to Nate. They would stay above ground. To cover their tracks. To cover the entrance, and to uncover the tunnel on the other side of the border. 

Cones of light were filtering through the forest now, trying to pierce the stubborn fog that had come in as evening fell. There were confused shouts, all in German. Questions tossed back and forth. A breeze pushed through the trees above them and the mere bend of groaning trunks seemed to spook the soldiers into pointing lights and guns at the sky. 

John grinned. Nate, covering the tunnel entrance, slapped the warlock’s arm and they both scrambled deeper into the forest. 

The soldiers didn’t want to be there. They’d been pulled from their beds by their commander. Responding to an informant trying to tell them that thirty of their charges had escaped the ghetto walls and were traveling through the forest. Thirty...that had been too many to ignore. Too many to let free where they could join resistance groups, tell the world lies about the Fuhrer, or worse, help others to escape. That these escapees had once been their neighbors, friends, cousins, lovers, didn’t seem to matter to the commander. They were ordered to hunt them down and use lethal force to retrieve them if necessary. 

The further from their beds, and their comfort, that the soldiers were drawn, the less they wanted to continue on. The forest was old, tortured. Ancient graves dotted it’s depths and as children they had known that to be in the forest at night was deadly and foolish. As grown men, trained as soldiers, armed with guns, the ghosts were no less of a threat. 

Thirty people disappearing into thin air...in a haunted forest. This was a magic beyond their kin. Beyond fear of retribution for not doing their duty. The Fuhrer might be able to threaten their lives, but there was nothing he could do to their eternal souls. The soldiers were ready to turn back when their commander pushed them forward, closer to the border. The soldiers clung closely to the tank and returned to the road to make up lost time on firmer ground. 

John decided to capitalize on the rumors, on the jumpy nature of the soldiers. On the creepy fog and the still of the night. He slipped back, let Nate pull ahead and started to conjure glamour spells. Wisps of fog and leaves and dirt that appeared human, made noises like humans, and would appear in flashes of light before dissipating. The child inside him giggled with delight as each new glamour roused a shout, a scream, a gunshot winging off into the night. 

They were so spooked that they were ordered to halt, standing before the tank, and receive a berating from their commanding officer. John was almost reluctant to return to the rest of the group. What better way to spend a tiresome evening than to frighten the daylights out of a load of Nazis. 

John conjured a spectre and let it glide across the road, fifty feet past the uniformed shoulders of the commanding officer, just at the edge of the light cast by the tank. A few of the men saw it and began to tremble, exchanging anxious glances. The commanding officer turned just as the spectre crossed out of the light and began his tirade anew. 

It took every bit of self-control not to dance and crow with glee. John conjured another. This one he made to look more like a woman, complete with a coiffure of moss and heels of sticks. She sashayed across the road, pirohueting and dancing for the benefit of the men. One of the soldiers fainted and the commanding officer ordered his troops to turn around seeming to accept that he had lost the advantage for the night. 

John couldn’t help the final parting shot. He conjured himself, dressed in the sweater and leather jacket, wool pants and boots, the cabbie cap and the Belgian flag at the shoulder that marked him as one of the enemy. He gave himself a Tommy gun and his glamour of himself stood in the middle of the roadway, letting loose like Clyde himself, spraying bullets at the enemy. 

They ducked and scrambled and ran for their lives. All except for the man in the tank. He hit the trigger and a shell the size of John’s forearm came screaming down the road faster than John had anticipated. He turned and tried to run. The shell hit something solid behind him and exploded sending shrapnel and debris rocketing through the forest. The glamour spell flickered out of existence as John went flying, losing consciousness when his back and head slammed into a tree. 

Nate heard the explosion and skidded to a halt, turning to look over his shoulder and ask John what that was. But John wasn’t there. Nate scanned the trees and the fog and the deserted road and so no sign of the blond. 

“Dammit, John.” He swore softly then touched his finger to his ear. It was a reflex. They had no comms. 

With the others underground, waiting for him to open the other end of the tunnel Nate couldn’t very well stop and search for the man. He and John had been as good as gone, he didn’t understand what reason John had for staying behind. But then..did Constantine need reasons? 

“John...answer me.” Nate called into the night, taking cautious steps back in the direction they’d come from. “What did you just blow up?” 

Again nothing. Nate was torn. The others would be waiting. Yes...waiting, in the safety of a tunnel that had at least some supplies in it. A tunnel that would keep them out of sight and safe from enemy bullets, bombs, etc. Whereas John...John was out there somewhere completely exposed. The man was powerful but not immortal. 

Nate growled and started down the road, keeping to the edge, ready to dodge into the trees the minute he spotted lights or heard a gunshot. He topped a rise and saw the glow of a fire in the woods. Beyond that, on it’s way back to the city, was the tank and the soldiers. Nate felt something squeezing his chest. 

Had John been captured? Was that what had stopped the soldiers, caused them to turn around and head back? Now they had a member of the underground, someone to torture for information, so why stay out all night going after the others. Nate swore, and he kept swearing, heading towards the glow. 

He had to at least confirm what the soldiers had left behind. Be it a body, or something that John might have been able to hide before capture. He couldn’t go after John on his own, but he could get as much information as possible before somehow crossing the border and rejoining the others. In his head, Nate was already sharing the news. Already they were planning a rescue. Already John was getting a solid berating from Ava for putting himself at risk and going off on his own. 

Nate nearly missed him. 

John lay sprawled at the base of a tree. His clothes were covered in dirt and blood and ragged holes in his pants and sweater showed glimpses of skin, crimson and metal. The back of John’s head was red with fresh blood, plastering his hair to his skull. Nate checked for a pulse, lay his hand on John’s chest. He was breathing, his heart was beating, and as Nate drew his hands back John stirred, groaning. 

Alive, awake. 

John took in a quaking breath and coughed blood into the leaves under him. “Bloody hell.” 

Nate tried to look the man over without jostling him too much. John was making furtive efforts to sit up and Nate finally helped him. Everywhere he touched the man, his hands came away slick with blood. “John, you’re a mess.” 

“Understatement...that.” John groaned, his legs splaying out as his back came to rest against the tree trunk that had stopped his flight. His head came back to rest against the trunk and his eyes slipped closed, his face paling, tightening with pain. 

Nate continued to investigate, pulling open the gaps in John’s clothing to see bits of shrapnel peppering his chest, his legs, his arms. “Jesus..” 

“Feel like a bloody pincushion.” 

“You’ve almost got as much metal in you as me.” Nate said, overwhelmed. No idea where to even start. “I’d start pulling it all out but...some of these…” Nate’s fingers tugged lightly at a scrap of twisted metal in John’s right shoulder and the reaction finished his sentence. 

“No..” John gritted out through his teeth. “No, we shouldn’t go pulling things out..not just yet.” 

“Think you can walk?” 

John’s eyes were closed again, his chest was hitching with every breath, but his color was returning. “Not far, mate.” 

Nate sighed and scanned the area, well lit by the fire. A fire that was likely to draw attention, and not the kind they wanted. “Was it worth it?” 

“What?” 

“Whatever it was you thought you were doing out here by yourself?” Nate asked, heat and anger coming to the fore. 

John’s face melted into a satisfied grin that faded with his consciousness. “Almost…” 

Nate shook his head and groaned. “Unbelievable.” He gently pulled John upright, up to his feet, then let the man’s body tip over his shoulder. He heard a soft groan from the man, but Constantine stayed unconscious. 

Nate went back the way they had come. Back to the shelter entrance. Crossing the border required them both, conscious, unhurt, and able to play act their way through the guarded crossing. John’s magic had done most of the work the first two times, and Nate knew there was no way he could carry a bloodied John over the border and get away with it. No...they needed the supplies and the support of the rest of the team. 

Nate did his best to cover the entrance up after he had John down in the tunnel. It wasn’t perfect but he’d at least pulled the netting over the door. John was stirring by the time Nate had one of the lanterns near the entrance lit. 

“Suppose you’re right...wouldn't have worked.” John muttered. His hands lay in his lap, his arms limp. His legs splayed. Nate would have been afraid of damage to John’s spine if he hadn’t seen the occasional spasm in John’s fingers. He knocked a boot against one of John’s ankles and felt a sense of relief at the hiss of pain. He even apologized. 

“What wouldn’t have worked?” 

“Border crossing.” John groaned, making some effort to help when Nate bent to drag him to his feet. They stood still for a moment. Nate could feel the muscles in Constantine’s back convulsing, and the man was swaying like a sapling in a hurricane. It was to his shock that John actually took a step forward on his own. That first step was followed by a second, and soon they were moving forward. Slowly, but steadily. 

“It would’ve raised a few eyebrows.” Nate said. “Especially since my German is crap and your Belgian is..” 

“Non-existant.” 

“And I didn’t plan on carrying you all the way from the border to the tunnel entrance. It’s not like there’s a friendly neighborhood hospital close by.” 

“Could’a...dropped me...at the tavern.” 

Nate laughed. “This is a dry job, remember. That’s why we left Rory on the ship in the first place.” 

“Still no word from her, then?” John struggled for a moment, and their progress ground to a halt. Nate helped him stabilize against the wall of the tunnel, keeping John upright with a hand under his armpit. 

“I tried. While you were passed out.” Nate said. The Waverider had been gone...out of reach...out of their lives for almost a month. While they were stuck in 1940 Belgium, under the rule of Nazi power. 

Dark, bloodshot eyes met his before John nodded, his head sagging like it weighed a thousand pounds. Nate could all but feel John gathering what reserves he had left moments before the thin man pushed away from the wall. The effort drew a groan from John that faded into a moan as Nate slipped under his shoulder. He propelled them forward another fifty feet before John threw his left hand out, grabbed onto a rock jutting out of the tunnel wall and pulled them both to a halt again. 

“C-can’t...can’t, Nathan. Can’t...please.” 

“OK...ok, hang on.” Nate guided him to the ground. He was going to prop John against the tunnel wall but the blond slipped down to the floor. Nate sank to his knees and let the light play over the warlock. If anything there was more blood, John was sweating profusely, and his face was paler than before. “I’m gonna get the others. I’ll leave the light here. John, you gotta hold on, ok?” 

John’s head nodded and he heard the murmur of agreement. The wounds were numerous, and some of them were deep, but none of them explained the lethargy, and the dizziness. None but the knock to the head that had slicked the back of John’s head with blood. Letting John pass out was a gamble, but Nate didn’t have a choice. 

He took off at a jog down the tunnel, one hand gliding across the wall to keep him from running into it. He announced himself before he got too close and he could feel the shift of eyes and attention going to him. Whispers came from the darkness before Ava relit her lantern. 

“Nate...what-” 

“John’s been hurt. He’s pretty bad. I got him into the tunnel but he can’t move anymore.”

“Were you guys able to get over the bor- No. Of course you weren’t.” Ava stopped, her mouth open, thinking. “We can’t get out of the tunnel from here and we can’t stay in the tunnel. There won’t be enough oxygen. Can you cross the border on your own?” 

Nate plucked at the blood stains that dotted his clothing, colored his hands and arms, smeared across his face. “I look like I tried to eat a deer raw..it’s not gonna happen.” 

“God..” Ava moaned, glancing over her shoulder to the crowd of worried faces. Zari was already weaving her way through the group, her face saying that she had noticed Nate without John. 

“Where is he?” She demanded, then passed Nate by, even before he could explain. 

“We’ll settle everyone here. Organize the supplies and get everybody comfortable. Z and I will take care of Constantine.” Ava said, then squeezed Nate’s shoulder. “You did the right thing. Behrad...help Nate.” 

She got confirmation even as she took off down the tunnel, grabbing a first aid kit, a can of sterno, a canteen and a mess kit from the boxes of red cross supplies. She found Zari cradling John’s head, the man out cold and a frightening shade of white. 

“Zari….Zari. We’re going to need some blankets, extra bandages. Needle and thread. The boys are going to need help getting the refugees settled.” Ava’s voice was gentle but firm. If she had learned nothing else from her missing partner, it was how to be compassionate and commanding in the same breath. A single tear wove it’s way down Zari’s cheek. Even limited to 20th century, wartime make up, Z had managed to maintain her beauty regimen and a distant part of Ava acknowledged the tragic beauty in the moment. “All hands on deck, right now.” Ava added, trying to drive the point home. 

If she had to, she would invoke the name of Behrad, but Zari eventually nodded, wiped her tears and planted a chaste kiss on John’s forehead. She didn’t wipe away the blush of lipstick she left behind. “Don’t let him die.” She ground out, then got to her feet and headed back down the tunnel. 

Ava went to work cleaning blood away, feeling for broken bones, cleaning what she could with sulfa powder and iodine. As she worked she could feel John responding. Sometimes only a shift or the tightening of muscles. Other times he came awake for brief seconds, looking delirious or offering a weak cough. Everytime he was fully awake his hands tried to travel to his skull, encountered the first of the bandages and dug into his temples. She got the message. 

There was a suturing kit in with the rest of the first aid supplies. A razor sharp curved needle, and sanitized horsehair thread. Primitive and frightening compared to medicine from later in the century, or the wonders that Gideon could do. Even a strip of tape might have been preferable to stabbing John over and over again. 

Ava bent over the blond, preparing to remove the first of a myriad of pieces of shrapnel when her head swam and she nearly went face first into his chest. With the sterno, the lantern, and two bodies sharing a small space they had used up most of the breathable air. Ava had forgotten her plan to open the trap door. 

She pushed to her feet, leaning against the wall of the tunnel. Her head blossomed into a migraine that would’ve put John’s headwound to shame. Ava tilted toward the entrance and launched herself in that direction, her feet finally shuffling into the hard packed dirt of the stairs. She climbed up, her head clearing as she got closer to the minute source of oxygen. She shoved one of the doors up and up, encountering resistance but shoving all the harder. Cool air, and tiny drops of rain enveloped her and she took a deep breath, swaying. The door was caught in the camouflage net but when she let it close a little, then pushed again, the door swung free, thudding into the ground. 

Ava stood on the topmost step, her forehead pressed into the canvas straps of the net, panting hard. The forest around her was quiet, dark, wet from the rain. One door open was enough for the moment. They would have to find a way to open the other door before more than a few hours had passed however. 

Ava turned back to the tunnel and descended. The sterno flame was burning brighter than before, and John appeared to be breathing easier. Ava knelt slowly, realizing how close her focused efforts had come to killing her and John both. If Sara had been there…

Ava thought back to the frantic hours, days, months of searching for Sara. Calling in favors. John questioning denizens of heaven and hell alike. Sending Zari into the wind totem to question herself. Flashing back and forth in time until they saw the blinding white light that took her. 

Ava went for the easiest of shrapnel pieces, extracting them, clearing the wound, letting them bleed freely until they stopped on their own. She didn’t notice the salt water mixing with the blood on John’s chest, spreading the blood stains on his trousers. She pulled and plucked until there were two pieces left. One deeply embedded in his right shoulder, and one sunk into his right side. 

Ava sat back, wiped the back of a bloody palm across her forehead and let her eyes lose focus. The minute she let herself relax the pain came back and she sobbed, choking on the sound, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth and losing the battle. 

“We’ll get ‘er back, love.” John’s voice was weak, delirious sounding. “I swear, we’ll get her back.” 

“It’s not just Sara.” Ava’s nose was running, her face was sweating tears, her hair had fallen from it’s bun and she could feel the fine tips of it irritating the skin on her cheeks. “The missions, the Waverider gone...those stupid, arrogant, Aryian assholes.” Ava tried to scream it, but her voice had gone hoarse in minutes and it was just as well. 

“I know…” John dragged in a breath. “I know...and we came here to save that git, didn’t we. But we had to, luv. And we’re makin’ up for it now.” 

Ava wept anew. She wasn’t the strong, fearless leader that Sara had been. She felt too much, cared too much. This mission in particular had gone so spectacularly wrong in so many ways. The one thing that had kept the panic at bay had been that her team seemed to escape every close call unscathed. But now…

Now, John Constantine was bleeding on the dank floor of a tunnel underground and she was taking a pity-party break. Ava wiped her tears and used the hand embroidered kerchief Gideon had fabricated to clear her nose. She got back to her knees and knelt over John. “You’ve got two large pieces still in you.” 

“I can feel ‘em...shoulder...side.” 

“I can pull them out, or cut them out. No way to know how deep they are. How much damage it might cause.” 

John groaned, his eyes rolling. He was quiet for a moment before he raised his left hand to her. “Help me sit up.” 

Ava pulled gently, using her other hand to guide John as he shifted, then leaned back against the wall. John tucked his chin down and looked to the shrapnel in his shoulder. His fingers poked at the wound, then around the flesh and muscle of the joint. He gingerly grasped the tip of the metal and moved it only centimeters in each of the cardinal directions. The movement paled him, and broke sweat out on his forehead. “That...one..can go last.” 

Then he gingerly pulled up his shirt and did the same exploration with the second piece. 

Ava could see the tip of it when John wiggled the piece around. “It’s just under the skin. It’s long, but I don’t think it hit anything important.” She said.

“Then you can ya-” 

Ava yanked. Blood followed the shrapnel out in a long curve. John’s back arched, then he turned onto his wounded side, his left hand flying to protect the area. He heaved and moaned, feet digging at the loose dirt of the tunnel floor, as his lungs struggled to pull in a decent breath. 

“You enjoyed that..” He accused, his eyes rolled back in his head. His head came to rest on the tunnel floor and he slowly went limp. Ava looked at the twisted piece of metal she had pulled from him. The end was bent inwards, and had to have hurt like hell coming out. A part of her was satisfied. John had gotten himself into this predicament, there was a sort of justice that was served if saving him, hurt him. 

John rolled onto his back finally and Ava moved in to clean and flush the wound. Much as the hole in his side could use stitches, Ava knew closing a puncture wound like that might welcome and foster infection. Best to let it heal on it’s own, and leave it open for draining purposes if need be. She covered the wound with layer of gauze, upon layer of gauze, pressing down until the bandages no longer spotted with blood. 

That used up the rest of the compresses and Ava would need to head back down the tunnel to get more. John was still awake, but he hadn’t moved much while she’d been working. It all made Ava feel exhausted and alone and she sat back against the tunnel wall, one hand resting on the calf closest to her, her head going back against the hard packed dirt. 

“Are we ever going to get out of ‘ere?” 

“Out of this tunnel?” Ava asked, her voice sharp. 

John groaned in response and Ava sighed apologetically. “Maybe not today.” She said, steeling her mind, resolving her spirit. “Maybe not tomorrow. But yes...John. We’ll get out.” 

Footsteps echoed down the tunnel and Nate appeared, his hands full of the supplies she had sent Zari after. “Z and B are putting food together.” 

“How’s the air at the other end?” 

“I..uh..” Nate avoided her eyes for a moment before he admitted. “I steeled up and punched a hole in the corner of the door. Fastest way to get air without busting the whole thing.” 

“Will it still open?” 

“Should.” Nate nodded, sounding a little too hopeful, and too little positive. Ava gave him a half hearted smile and took the handfuls of gauze. 

“We’re almost done here.” 

Nate moved to sit on the other side of the warlock and got a weak slap on his bicep. “Gonna make it, Johnny?” 

“I plan to wear my Victoria Cross, not be buried with it.” John followed the comment with a guttural sigh, his eyes closing. 

They were all tired. It had been too long of a day. Too long of a week. Ava checked the bandages and pondered the war that changed so much of history. A war that had defined warfare for the entire world and not just a corner of it. A war that, unlike others, had needed the figure of Hitler as an enemy. Without that evil, without that heartless megalomaniac at the helm of the Axis powers, Gideon had shown them how the death toll tripled. Each nation carved out a niche and dug in and after the first five years of the war, ten atom bombs had been dropped around the world. Not just two. 

There was no stopping the war. The nations were primed, desperate, and some of them over confident in their conquest. Killing Hitler only made it worse. Keeping Hitler alive and in power, united the nations and gave them a common, moral enemy. So they had been charged with making sure an anachronistic attempt at killing Hitler did not succeed. Well meaning, passionate people had perished at the hands of the Legends. And then the Waverider had disappeared. 

They spent a week running and hiding and desperately trying to get the ship back before Behrad had gotten wind of a resistance group working to get Jews and Muslims out of Belgium. Throwing their lot in with others of the time period was precisely the sort of thing Ava knew Sara would have tried to stop. But Ava wasn’t the leader that Sara had been. Giving her lot of hot heads something to do while they waited was all she had left in her bag of tricks. Her one demand had been that everyone behave by the rules of the time. They had no tech, and were to use as little magic as was possible. Nothing that would get superheroes written into World War 2 romances and action flicks. 

The others had agreed. The work had kept them focused. Brought them closer together. Helped to keep the gibbering panic at bay. 

Ava pushed away from the wall. When she moved, Nate did too. They both converged on the warlock at the same time and John drew in a bracing breath, his focus floating to the ceiling. A pub song filtered out of his lips as Ava closed her fingers around the shard of metal in his shoulder. Nate held John down and Ava pulled, one smooth motion. 

The verse staggered and died in John's throat and his eyes disappeared into the back of his head. The pain gurgled in his throat and he clung to Nate, saliva and dark, dried blood dribbling down his chin. Ava covered the seeping hole with gauze and dropped the shrapnel. The pain kept every muscle taut and the blood John had left engorged the veins in his face, making them stand out. Ava counted. It took John a full minute and a half to pull in a breath. 

He fell into a fit of coughing and his face was bathed with tears. Nate picked up a pad of gauze that had fallen in the dirt and soaked it with water, clearing John's face and neck of sweat, dirt and specks of gunpowder. Ava expected him to pass out but he clung to consciousness, barely. It was just as well. They needed to all be at the other end of the tunnel sooner rather than later. 

Ava wrapped the shoulder wound tightly after she had cleaned it. She packed the rest of the supplies into the bread bag she carried at her side. 

“Ready to move?” She asked. Nate met her eyes, already getting under John's shoulders. John nodded, groggy but still there. They got him to his feet and pressed down the tunnel, a three headed, six legged monstrosity. 

They could smell the weak, earthy aroma of tea seconds before they came across the group of refugees. Ava and Nate lowered John to the floor, onto a blanket that had been laid out for him and Zari was there instantly, looking over the bandages, the tears, the blood. “What did you do to yourself, you idiot?” 

Behrad gave Ava a collapsible tin cup filled with strong, lukewarm tea, then passed the same to Nate. “Biscuits and jam, and we opened a SPAM.” The half hearted smile that followed the rhyme, got a tired smile from Ava, and a brilliant grin from Nate. She admired the man’s ability to joke or grin at the drop of a hat. 

They ate the portions that had been reserved for them. Ava ate with the smallest bites possible, knowing that she was stalling. Trying to cross the border would be foolish up top. If Nate could force the doors open from inside it would be safer if they waited through the daylight hours and traveled again in the darkness. All of them could use sleep. One look told her John was already out, an exhausted Zari curled up next to him. 

It was John’s magic that had carried them across each time. John’s glamour spells and charmed bits and bobs that gave them perfect travel papers, perfect accents, perfect alibis. He had been so reliably self-concerned with his safety, having a back up plan hadn’t been necessary. This was only their third mission! Ava worked her way through every validation and excuse she had, chewing the last of her meal into a paste before even she couldn’t stand the SPAM taste. 

“We’ll stay here til nightfall. Go up when it’s dark enough. Head straight for the rendezvous. All of us.” She said, making eye contact with as many of the frightened people in the tunnel with her as she could. 

“I have to go to the toilet.” A small voice said. Another joined it, agreement. Then a few murmured adult voices. 

Ava struggled to calculate. Nate stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “We still have a few hours before dawn.” He offered, moving through the crowd of people and peering up through the hole he had created in the door. “One of us can stay with John. The rest of us can finish the mission.” 

“I can...cover...the entrance. Maybe an hour.” John offered. He looked boneless, frighteningly pale, but Ava saw determination in his eyes. 

“I’ll stay with him.” Zari said, and like that Ava’s plan had changed. 

“We move now, then.” She said simply, and the tunnel was filled with groans, creeks, cracks, the rustle of clothing and shifting bodies. 

Normally Nate and John would have been topside already, making sure that the warlock’s glamour spell didn’t suddenly appear on top of an unsuspecting farmer, or directly in the sight of a patrol. This time, they risked it. 

John leaned hard on Zari near the entrance, his eyes closed, breathing with tense focus as he whispered his spell over and over. With a few powerful blows, Nate warped the door and shoved it from its hinges. Instead of appearing in the middle of an open field, Nate, Behrad, Ava and thirty refugees climbed up into the shelter of a low wellhouse. The children had a few minutes to take care of their needs before the group headed out into the night.


	2. Part I

Chapter 2

John paced slowly. He’d been pacing since their return to the safe house. A few minutes at a time and then an hour. When Zari tried to nurse him he insisted on doing it himself. He’d kissed the disappointed pout and tried to explain that he was only going to heal if he pushed himself. But she had been cold to him. 

So he paced. Even while the others planned and plotted a mission that didn't rely on him, he was intent on being ready to join them. 

“Historically speaking we’re pushing our luck trying to use that tunnel over and over.” Nate brought up at the dinner table. John paced past him. He hadn’t done a lot of hiding and sneaking in his life. Most of his work had been loud and proud, the bigger the better. Even he knew how dull a trick became the fourth or fifth time you saw it. 

“What else can we use, Nate? Are you saying we should dig another tunnel?” Zari asked, frustrated. 

Nate shrugged a little, his eyes losing focus as he thought. “We have hindsight...okay? We know so much about how this war ended. Yet we’re fighting in it like we can’t see tomorrow. If that’s the only advantage we have, knowing at least something about the future, I say we use it.” 

“Brought some text books with you?” John asked, passing behind Nate again. 

“No...but I’ve got a degree and I spent a whole lot more time on this era than any other. With what we-...I know, we could shut down a munitions factory. We could sabotage troop movements, trains..hell we could empty POW camps. Concentration camps.” 

The others were staring at him. Ava even had an amused smile on her face that said she wasn’t taking him seriously. The group was silent but for the measured, rhythmic sound of John pacing around the room. 

“Our underground contact will be here in a day, Nate...and as much as I love your enthusiasm...if we aren’t here to help him..I’m not comfortable trading twenty or thirty lives, even for a thousand.” Ava said.

Nate nodded. There was little fight in him. Ava wasn’t saying they should stop or quit. Just shining a light on reality and Nate let it pass. 

“What can we use..other than the tunnel?” John asked, his face starting to show the fatigue from the pain caused by the pacing. 

“What about the soldiers? A small unit of twenty guys, right? A tank...a..half track. One of hundreds of units all along the border just doing their daily checks. What if...what if we replaced them? Use a little of John’s magic, steal some uniforms or something. We would own this part of the border. We could walk the refugees across into France like they were prisoners. We could move a hundred instead of 20.” 

“I can’t pass for a soldier. Ava and Zari won’t pass…” Behrad interrupted angrily. 

“John can-” 

“John is injured. And grounded for the moment.” Ava cut in. 

“John is bloody fine.” John bit out, pausing to lean against the back of Zari’s chair. “I’m...fine.” 

He took a deep breath then looked to Nate. “What have you got in mind, mate?” 

Nate turned hopeful eyes up to the warlock then said, “Have any of you seen the movie Von Ryan’s Express?” 

***

Three days later John was pacing in a German infantry uniform, walking beside a German high command car they had appropriated. Zari and Ava were hidden inside, their hair tightly pinned up under the uniform caps, their lady bits strapped down. Behind them were 115 refugees, all “guarded” by partisans and resistance group members dressed in bits and pieces of uniforms. 

They had staged an attack on their own headquarters, using their own guns to shoot the place up and set it ablaze. All that remained of the supplies in the safehouse had been loaded into the car or onto the backs of the ‘soldiers’. They were a moving way-station on the underground railroad now. 

The hope was that they could cover more ground and get the refugees all the way to the coast this way. All the way into the hands of the Allies and on to England, America or Jerusalem. If it didn’t work. If they couldn’t pull it off, this would be a one time thing. If it worked...if they could...maybe they could do more. 

They’d spent every spare hour thinking out the possibilities. The if’s and when’s. They’d coached every one of the refugees on the part they had to play, and on the choices they would have to make for themselves if everything fell apart. They’d reminded them that the allies could be just as much of a threat as the enemy, if they weren’t vigilant. If they tried to go off on their own. If they didn’t heed every warning. 

Thankfully none of the new group of escapees had argued. They moved at night to make it easier to glamour the group if John had to, and make it easier to guard the group while they rested during the day time. Each of them caught an hour or two of sleep in the back of the command car, rotating in and out as they moved. The key was keeping everyone in motion. The more distance they could put between themselves and the last place where someone had noticed them, the better they would be. 

It was a traveling theatre show, they were gypsies, living by their wits and relying on their ability to fool the world. The major difference was that a poor performance would get them all shot. 

Ava was at the wheel of the command car for the moment, letting it coast at walking speed. Zari was in the back sleeping and when she woke in a few hours it would be John’s turn. Zari would drive and Ava would walk in the middle of the group, close enough that she could hide among the taller refugees if she needed to. They’d done the best they could to make the ladies’ features look more masculine. Ava’s height worked to her advantage but Zari had more curves and couldn’t make herself sound or walk like a man, though they’d tried. 

The only light they used was from the headlights of the car, but the full moon over head lit the open stretches of road like it was daylight. The countryside was quiet and chilly. It had snowed that morning for an hour, the white stuff only lasting half the day before the sun came out to melt it off. Nate had told them that the winters could be harsh and it was better to move south before a storm hit. Their safe house hadn’t been equipped to shelter them for the winter. That, if nothing else, had been a decent reason for the group to relocate. 

Ava marveled at how much they had taken for granted, living and working on the Waverider. How many other legends...historical legends...had operated out of caves, or shacks, boxcars and hovels. They’d had every food they could have desired, every scrap of clothing, and every room catered to their needs. Plus, a ship that could tell the future. Ava resolved herself to never again complain about her living arrangements. 

They were well south of the Belgian border when Ava stopped the car and the group huddled together around the warmth of the engine block. Many of them had wanted to start fires, but they couldn’t risk it. Ava promised they could have fires and hot meals when they stopped for the morning. 

They were on the move again in under an hour. Ava fell into step next to Nate and did her best to act like a soldier. It was remarkable to her just how quiet a crowd of over a hundred people could be. Their shoes, the metal canteens and pots and pans, puffs of breath frosting in the air all created a white noise that faded from her hearing and she was soon only aware of the silence. No voices. No laughter. No singing. 

She knew about the concentration camps of this era. About the horrors that what became known as the Holocaust laid bare for the world. The branches of psychology that grew from the atrocities of those camps alone had been the start of a social revolution only a decade later. She knew that many tried to deny the evidence collected by the men, women and children who had suffered in the camps. Testimonies from survivors, from guards, from civilians that lived near the camps, and from the American and Russian troops that freed those still interned. Photographs and video footage, court transcripts, artifacts. A mountain of evidence, of proof, and still there were those who would deny that the SS and Hitler had been anything other than protectors of the wayward and strange. 

It was the same sort of people that had determined to kill Hitler. Convinced of the truth they had manufactured for themselves and either not aware of, or not willing to see the other side. Like how the Time Bureau had been. How Sara had been before meeting Charlie. How Ava had been before meeting Sara. Before loving Sara. Encountering others had made the difference. Walking in the shoes of others. Learning of their lives from their perspective, that had been how Ava and her team had grown to be the heroes they were now. How John and Astra, sworn enemies, had come to share his home in England. 

Learning...sharing...more than fighting or killing...it was words that had started every revolution in history. Hitler had used words to gain his power. Words…

“Nate…” Ava breathed softly. 

Nate’s head came up and he immediately scanned the horizon, then their back trail expecting someone was coming up on them. 

“What if we told the allies…” 

“Told the-” 

“About the concentration camps. About the mass killings and the ghettos. What if we told them now. Showed them pictures. Sent them video. What if we encouraged all of these survivors to speak up about what is happening here. If the Allies knew sooner about the Holocaust...what...what would that do to the timeline?” 

Nate was quiet for a long time. “It’s hard to believe, Ava..I mean there are still people that claim that the-” 

“I know. There will always be people who won’t believe it but if we spread the news. If we told everyone in the world about it...somehow.” 

Ava fell quiet, plans forming in her mind. “We wouldn’t be killing anyone. We wouldn’t be...spinning history on its ear, would we? And even if we did...maybe that would alert the Waverider or Gideon...maybe…” 

Ava looked up and found Nate was grinning at her. “I like the idea, Ava. You don’t need to convince me.” 

Ava felt her shoulders sag and she sighed into a smile of her own. She wiped tears from her face that she hadn’t remembered shedding. “Even if it’s the last thing we do here...getting pictures...sending a...a map that has all the camps marked on it...something, anything that might make a difference for these people.” 

“A map will be easy. Photos might be harder. We don’t have a radio but our friends could probably connect us with one.” Nate was nodding, still grinning. “I like how you think, Ava Sharpe.” 

Ava smiled again but kept her teeth hidden this time. She felt some of the clouds clearing, and some of the old confidence returning and she clung to that with a childlike abandon, memorizing the feeling. She knew it would fade. She knew there would be trials ahead and that this might be where her life ended. But that feeling...like she could take down the devil and not break a sweat, it was worth it. 

As they traveled John grew stronger. His spells came faster and lasted longer and he began to build up a collection of herbs, dirt, bugs, eggs. He soon had all the children in the group wrapped around his fingers, happily running off to hunt for his ingredients, even though they’d been forced to do it in absolute silence. All it took was a few magic tricks on John’s part and he was the instant favorite. 

Despite walking most of the night the children still managed to sum up the energy to play and it did wonders for the adults caring for them. It would have been a bright and positive group in the final days before reaching the French shore, if it hadn’t been for the bombers. Three nights in a row they flew overhead, pointed at England. Three nights, they returned, lighter, fewer, but still too many flying. 

The leader of the resistance group had been the one to arrange for a boat to meet them. Despite some U-boat attacks, and the Blitzkrieg, most red cross ships continued to maintain safety when crossing the channel and it was a smaller, recently converted vessel that was to meet them. This vessel had been rumored to have carried refugees before and the resistance group leader, Vans, claimed he had sent a dozen people over the past year along the same route. 

A dangerous endeavor, but a trusted source. 

They waited. No fires. No protection from the arctic wind blowing in off the water. Silent, huddled among the dunes, all of them waited. Ava, Nate, John, Zari and Behrad had already begun planning. The map was their first step. Creating it, and getting it into as many high level hands as possible. Maybe handing it to some news agencies in Britain, America, Sweden. Anyone not yet involved in the war. 

The bombers came that night. As soon as he heard them John stood, and went to the beach. Outlined against the waves he watched the planes appear and disappear behind the clouds, their bellies black as coal. They weren’t close enough to see the bombs, to see the flames, to hear the screams. But John’s body was rigid with anger and pain as his country was battered. 

Their transport arrived before the planes returned. John was silent, helping the kids get on board and tucking them in under the sandbag covered shelter under the main deck. At least one little girl had handed him a wilted flower, and another gave him a shy kiss before settling down. Men and women exchanged hugs and handshakes with their saviors before the boat departed, leaving the Legends and the resistance group standing on the shore. 

It was there that the two parties divided. The final days of the trip had given them time to make arrangements with the resistance group. The uniforms and gear would go to the freedom fighters. The car would go with the Legends. John used what he had collected in the forests to create protection charms for each of the group members, and he had written down a few simple spells that they could practice. One young boy among them had shown great promise in the area of magic and John had done what he could to foster a positive relationship between the boy and the gift he clearly had. In the back of his mind he was aware that he might have been creating a new dark mage that he might find himself up against in the future. 

It was a burden he accepted readily if it meant the boy stayed alive. 

The planes were returning by the time the freedom fighters had disappeared into the woods. Ava stopped the car and they threw the camouflage netting over it before hunkering down off the road to wait for them to pass. Everyone but Behrad and John. 

Ava only realized they were missing when she saw the first ball of fire rocket into the air. Fire from John, wind from Behrad. The first shot missed. The second one didn’t. Lofted into the air the ball of flame, wrapped around a rock, was sucked into the draft of one of the engines and the plane started to lose altitude. Heedless, John and Behrad continued their assault, firing at a rate that would have put the ack-ack batteries to shame on the island. They only stopped when the first belly gunner spotted the source of the fire and opened up. Nate, Zari and Ava could only see the sand flying up into the air, the line of bullets climbing the embankment and driving holes into the asphalt of the road. They took off toward the beach, making a hundred yards before more fire started launching into the air. 

The three stopped, hunkered down, waited. John and Behrad had learned from their first encounter and had begun to shift positions. Their aim was improving and more and more of the planes were shifting course away from the assault on the beach. The change in course was just as easily damning. Batteries from the French shoreline, sparsely placed, opened up miles away from where the Legends had taken shelter. A distant craft sparked a flame and went down smoking and Nate, Zari, Ava, John and Behrad stood cheering and screaming defiance at the skies. 

The last of the planes climbed in altitude, risking ice on their wings, but preferring the ice to the fire. They were easily out of reach of John’s and Behrad’s abilities and the two turned away from the beach, stumbling exhausted back to the rest of the group. Zari rose to greet them, cheering, crying, throwing her arms around both men at the same time and kissing them. 

John used what remained of his energy to light a sheltered fire on the beach and they stayed there that night, watching the crashed planes as they burned. Watching the distant glow of London. Watching. Waiting for the next opportunity to strike back. Ava felt that feeling again. Confidence, hope. Their weakest member had recovered, had struck a blow against the enemy. They had a plan. She only wanted Sara there to see it.


	3. Part I

Chapter 3

It took a week to get to London. By then they were starving, sick and exhausted. In the city, tension was high, a quarter of London was in shambles. Their plan would require that they establish themselves in a city that was highly suspicious of newcomers. Still, Ava and Zari found work easily in the city, and Behrad and Nate, with their American accents, weren’t questioned when they applied for work at the factories. John was the odd one out, at first, until he reported to the war office. He claimed he was the son of a farmer, that his father had died before the war and he, John, was the sole support for his dying mother. His mother had died, John was reporting for duty. The still bright pink scars from the shrapnel drew questions and John explained being caught in an air raid. He was given temporary shelter and told to report for training in a week. 

Zari was given a map of the city and a bicycle. She made quick friends with a young woman named Sally, and they both began working for the overtaxed postal system, helping to deliver letters. Ava went from cleaning lavatories to working as a secretary in short order. While the promotion seemed to have begun as a male boss hoping to throw his leg over the prettiest blonde he had seen since the war began, Ava soon proved herself a valuable addition to the office where she worked. An office that served the war department by processing reports of attacks, bomber sightings, U-boat sightings and more. 

Their first move came on October 2nd. Nate had remembered it. A day when 17 German planes were shot down after an attack on the city. Nate got the word to Ava, who slipped in the report of planes spotted over the skies in Belgium, bound for England. It was ignored at first, and Ava typed another report. This one claiming that a ham radio enthusiast had picked up chatter from German planes, planning an air raid for that night. The combination of the two reports, plus a third that Ava barely managed to include in time, drew the attention of a single clerk in the war department. 

Tobias Hamilton noted the three alerts, marked them down in his log book and reported one of a thousand claims that day as a possible threat. It was only after the attack that very night that he even remembered having read the notes. 

Nate started a timeline in the small apartment that he shared with Behrad and two others who worked at the same factory. Every date, no matter how insignificant, suddenly had value and before long he had a string of ‘warnings’ to give to Ava. 

They worked through October, gradually developing a routine that kept them all in contact with one another. John was assigned to one of the anti-aircraft units in the city and his section began to gain attention for having unusual success at downing planes. So much so that it drew the attention of an American reporter who had been assigned to cover the war in Europe for a nation still reluctant to get it’s feet wet. 

The evening Joe O’Hara appeared on the field, press badge pinned to his lapel, fedora at a canter, John nearly collapsed. There could have been no relation. It wasn’t possible. And yet…

“He’s a dead bloody ringer, Ava.” John told her breathlessly the following morning. “Darker hair, lighter complexion...he’s just the connection we need to get our news to America. But if someone spots the two of us in the same place, at the same time.” 

Ava blinked and glanced to Nate and Behrad. “I...I don’t...I don’t understand the problem, here. John, just introduce yourself to the man.” 

John stumbled over an answer, trying to find support in the group. Seeing his own face wandering around on someone else’s body had rattled him more than he had even realized, and every warning signal had gone off at once. Yet the others seemed unimpressed. John snapped his mouth shut and rolled his eyes. “Fine...there’s a party being held at a hotel. It’s called The Halcyon. They’re celebrating their 50th anniversary. Service men and their ‘em...ladies...are invited. Tomorrow night, love.” 

“We’ll all find a way to be there.” Ava said, nodding confidently. “What about the map.” 

“It’s done. I’ve got five copies already sealed in tubes. One more hidden in the apartment.” Nate said. 

“If this...party...is open to servicemen there’s likely to be all sorts there, War Office, press. Plenty of big wigs to shmooze. Everyone we want...together in one room..for one night.” John took a deep breath. “This might be it.” 

“Each of us will focus on one goal. John, you and Zari get Mr. O’Hara’s attention and keep it for as long as you have to. Whatever it takes to convince him of who we are, and that our intel is good. Nate, you and I will focus on anyone that I recognize from the war office. Make sure you have the map with you. You’re my schmoozer, so I want you playing the room. Find the likeliest target and we’ll work him together. B...if we’re ever going to make waves enough to get Gideon’s attention, it’s going to be now. That radio you’ve been working on. What are the chances you can bring it with you to the hotel?” 

Behrad opened his mouth but instead of a firm positive, he sighed and shrugged. “It’s bigger than a bread box and it isn’t pretty. It might draw more attention than we want.” 

Ava nodded. “Nate and I will scout out the hotel tomorrow morning. We’ll find a spot nearby where you can work freely. The minute...you hear anything from the Waverider...we’re gone. That’s our main priority. And I don’t plan to leave anyone behind...agreed?” 

Four heads nodded in agreement and Ava hugged herself tightly, taking in a breath to tamp down the heavy weight of the fear settling into her chest. “One last question. Will there be an air raid tomorrow night?” 

Ava looked to Nate. He met her eyes and nodded once. “Then let’s do our best not to make ourselves targets.” 

By six-thirty the following evening, Zari and John had taken a cab to the Halcyon hotel and were walking through the gate to the courtyard. The hotel glowed from the inside out, golden and stately and proud. Even from the yard they could hear the boisterous music from the band, laughter and glasses clinking. Zari had bought a dress with the small amount of her earnings that she had been able to save and was radiant. Red with small white polka dots, a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves, a full skirt that flirted around her knees. She’d put her hair up in a coiffure and used a little oil to make it shine. John had bought her a white carnation for her hair and had trouble keeping his eyes off of her. 

In his uniform, with his hair parted at the side and slicked down, for once clean shaven, John was a knockout. Zari’s cheery red lips would have been all over his in an instant had it not been for the shoddy nature of lipstick in those days. It would end up everywhere. With John keeping a protective grip on her waist, despite the danger of the situation, Zari felt the magic of the night and wished it would never end. If they got back...if the Waverider came...she would have Gideon make a uniform for John...just so that she could have the pleasure of ripping it off of him. 

The two melded into the crowd of mostly servicemen, and Zari was introduced to the men that John served with at the guns. They were mingling while the band took a break when John’s dark haired twin came down the main staircase of the hotel, dressed in a three-piece button down suit that complimented his slender frame. He was taller than John, his face a little rounder. They looked like more than brothers and Zari couldn’t help the gasp. It drew John’s attention and he locked eyes with Joe. The look on O’Hara’s face betrayed his astonishment. The American reporter stumbled to a stop in the doorway to the ballroom and didn’t respond at first to the presence of the assistant manager, a charming young woman with dark brown hair and round eyes. Joe whispered to her and pointed and they both stared at John and Zari until the band started to play a waltz and John pulled Zari into a gentle turn. 

“Oh my god, John.” Zari exclaimed as quietly as she could, her eyes astonished. 

“Told ya.” 

An hour later Ava and Nate arrived. Nate wore the only suit he could find, a borrowed ten-year-old number that he wouldn’t have been able to fit his shoulders into a few months ago. The low rations and lack of protein had made him thinner and more wiry and he fit the suit once a tailor sharing their apartment had let the pant cuffs out. Nate carried Ava’s bread bag with the maps inside. Ava had hired a cab and picked Nate up at his apartment. 

When she stepped out of the cab at the Halcyon, her gloved hand held by a smiling doorman, Nate had to pause to admire the styles of his favorite era. Ava wore a body hugging periwinkle blue gown. A film of taffeta started at her right shoulder, wrapped around her waist and fell to the hem of the gown where it flared near her ankles. She’d worn her hair down and curled at the bottom and it dangled perfectly in the space left by the open back of the dress. Her gloves, shoes and clutch complimented the glass broach that held her hair back from her face. 

Nate’s shabby brown coat, plaid pants and jet black vest made him look like a carnival barker compared to Ava, but they had done the best they could with such short notice. Nate paid the cabby and they went into the hotel together. A part of Nate had been a little boy in a candy store since they had arrived in the 1940s. But nothing yet had come close to the glitz and ritz of the Halcyon. The opulence of real china, lead crystal, marble, gold leaf, silver, all the precious metals that were mimicked or mocked in the future were real here. Even the wafts of cigarette and cigar smoke, a slender cylinder of tobacco in nearly every hand or purse, the clouds of non-hypoallergenic perfumes and colognes, and the PETA-unfriendly stoles and fur coats. 

He had nothing against the changes that the next generations would make to take better care of the world and the people and animals in it, but the 40s had been the end of purity in a sense. Here and now, where what they enjoyed came at a price that truly reflected its value and the enemy of the world was a truly mad, evil man. This was the last age of innocence. He allowed himself to be naive and enjoy it, swinging Ava onto the dance floor and guiding her confidently through the steps of a slow foxtrot. When she finally began to relax, her smile brightening the room, Nate closed his eyes and lost himself in the wonder. 

Behrad had worn everything black that he owned. He’d found a woolen sailor's jacket that was warm enough for the night, black leather gloves, scarf. The rest was what he’d been wearing for two months. It was getting thin, but it was all that he had. Nate and Ava had suggested he take the radio to the top most level of the fire escape. A winding, spider web of iron that clung to the side of the Halcyon. Finding a platform that wasn’t directly opposite a window had been an interesting process. Behrad made no effort not to peek and peer into rooms, especially those where the lights were on. Watching men, and especially women, going about their lives in a time period he’d never hoped to experience in person, had been a little like going through a virtual zoo. He’d taken so much time finding the perfect, distraction-less place, that the party was in full swing by the time he set himself up. The only way to work the radio was to hand crank it, and he couldn’t just broadcast on one signal. Operating the radio was a full time commitment and a boring one at that. Above him he had the stars, and strict instructions that at the first sign of planes he was to abandon ship and get into the hotel shelter as quickly as he could. Behrad started cranking, one earpiece of an antique headset pressed to his ear. 

“This is...is uncanny.” Joe said, the cigarette between his fingers still trembling. 

John nodded. “It’s something we’re going to have to get past, tho, mate. If you’re willing to believe all that I’ve got to tell ya...our good looks are the least of your concerns.” 

Joe’s head canted to the side and his eyes narrowed. A grin came to the side of his mouth that was so like Constantine, Zari felt her heart flutter a little. She cleared her throat and excused herself to the powder room, intent on finding Ava and Nate and telling them how well the plan was going. 

“Alright..I’m intrigued. Corporal Constantine, what have you got for me.” 

John started talking, weighing his words carefully. Starting with Belgium and opening his uniform coat and shirt to show the scars. Impressing Joe wasn’t easy but the more John said, the more Joe leaned in, his fingers itching for his writing pad. John knew he had him when the man patted his lapel pockets and winced. 

“I left something I’m going to need up in my room, and uh...this conversation probably shouldn’t be continuing here at the bar. Whaddya say we head upstairs. I can promise you a glass of bourbon and a cigar.” 

“I’ll take that promise. Lead the way, mate.” 

Ava watched John and the reporter politely work their way out of the ballroom and into the lobby. She took Zari to the side and pointed after the two as they disappeared. “I think John could use someone watching his back, just in case.” 

“John always needs someone watching his back. Good luck, you guys.” Zari agreed before quietly flowing out into the lobby. 

“Do you want a drink?” Nate asked, snagging two shallow glasses of champagne as the tray passed. Ava took one even as she was thinking that a drink was the last thing she wanted. She scanned the room for the third time trying to spot a familiar face. She caught sight of a uniform moving through the crowd, towards the bar and thought the way they walked and moved looked familiar. 

“There…” Ava said, then handed her drink back to Nate untouched and wove through the crowd. She had her hand on his shoulder, her mouth saying, “Lt. Hamilton..” before she realized she had the wrong man. He looked remarkably like Toby but clearly wasn’t. 

“That would be my brother...Miss. And I’m afraid he’s no longer a Lieutenant.” 

Ava’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She felt the start of a ticking time bomb of panic in her head but she drew in a breath and said, “I’m sorry...I don’t.” 

“We haven’t met. I’m Toby’s older brother. And...you must be the typist he’s been keen to tell me about. What was your name?” 

“Ava...Ava Sharpe.” She swallowed and watched as her hand rose, meeting the lips of the uniformed officer who was clearly carrying a dangerous chip on his shoulder. 

“I’m...sorry. I’m confused. What happened to Toby.” 

The young man before her took in a breath then sighed. “He was under suspicion of treason and lost his position at the war office. He’s had the charges dropped since but it seems MI-5 is not a forgiving agency.” 

She was given a smile and a small laugh and a hand coasted down her arm to her elbow. “My name is Freddie Hamilton. Come, I’ll get you a drink.” Freddie guided her through the crowd, stopping briefly at the bar before inviting her to sit at one of the well adorned tables that ringed the room. “Don’t tell me you’ve come here alone.” 

Ava sat and her hands went automatically to the stem of the glass that Freddie had gotten for her. “I...no. I’m here with my-” 

“Boyfriend?” Freddie guessed with a pointed look to her ringless fingers. 

Ava felt a pang and pulled her hands into her lap. “No...no.” She took a hard breath in, mentally slapping herself out of her stupor. “No..he’s a friend. A very good friend from America.” 

Freddie’s face brightened playfully. “Ah...Americans. Perhaps you’ve met Mr. Joe O’Hara...or heard his broadcast?” 

Ava smiled a little, “I have.” She lied hoping desperately that he wasn’t going to question her on the latest show. 

“And what do you think of it?” 

Ava’s mouth hung open yet again before she decided to change tactics. “It’s informative...but not the sort of information I’m interested in. I work at the war office where your brother works...worked...you know that. And I translate messages every day. From all over. I’ve been getting messages...rumors maybe...about horrible things that the Nazi’s are doing to the people in the countries they’ve taken over. Grotesque, evil...things. And I came tonight because I wanted to tell Toby about them. Someone..has to know. Someone should do something.” 

Freddie’s smile had fallen but his face still remained open. His hand came up over the table and he patted her fingers. “You’re...passionate, my dear. But misguided. Everything you handle at your job is to stay there. Telling anyone...even me, about what you may have heard or seen, could very well get you locked up. I...can’t imagine what a prison frock would do to your complexion, but I would hate to see you jailed for only having a good heart.” 

It took everything in Ava’s power not to yank her hands away in disgust. Instead she slowly stood, quietly excused herself, and went to find Nate, her face flaming red. 

John stepped into the room after O’Hara and studied the ornate claustrophobia of its interior. Compared to the ball room the guest rooms were antiquated, but well decorated and appointed. John heard the tinkle of a crystal decanter meeting the heads of two glasses and peered out the blackout curtains of one of the windows at the front garden, still full of guests streaming into the building. Joe came to stand next to him, handing him the glass in his right hand before he swept the curtain up and out of the way. They both drank, watching the folderal. 

“When you were in Belgium. Were they enjoying parties like these?” 

John snorted softly into his glass and shook his head. “The Germans maybe, but the people we worked with...no, it was a party simply to be breathing.” John remembered standing on the French beach, prancing about with Behrad and the others, hooting into the night sky after knocking down a few bombers. That was the only party he’d been to before tonight. 

“You said they were...doing something with the people you couldn’t get out. Corralling them.” 

John looked up and saw that Joe had slipped on a pair of wire frame glasses and had a stack of writing paper in front of him, pen in hand, ready. 

“It’s been systematic.” John said carefully. “First they moved the gypsies, the insane and infirm, the queers….the political prisoners...to camps where they were forced to work or starve. Then all Jewish citizens were forced to register, then wear the Star of David on their coats.” John swirled a finger over his right breast pocket, right where his name tag was pinned. “Jewish businesses were targeted. Doctors, teachers, lawyers, merchants all lost their livelihoods. Then they couldn’t have licenses, or bicycles. Synagogues were bombed and burned. Curfews in place.” John was pacing again, sipping at the bourbon. “The sheer...propaganda against them. Hitler has ‘experts’ that have made charts that will show you what a Jew looks like...how the length of a nose or the color of an eye makes you..subhuman. Not part of the Aryian race.” 

Joe was silent, writing constantly and only occasionally pausing to sip from his glass or move his cigarette from his mouth to the ashtray and back. 

“He’s moved all of the Jews into Ghettos, the worst parts of the cities, and crammed them into rooms that were meant to hold 5 people and now hold 20. The whole time they’re told it’s for their own good. The lies...pack your things. We’re loading a train for you tonight that will take you to Jerusalem. We don’t want you here, but we’ll send you where you belong.” John turned toward Joe, his hands in the air. “I mean, after being hounded and harassed, who wouldn’t take that deal? And so they pack their things...only the most valuable of things, because these people aren’t stupid. They know, the way to speak to the world that hates them is money. They let themselves be herded onto the trains. 48s.” 

“Forty men, 8 horses. Boxcars.” Joe said, still writing, the cigarette casting a single filament of smoke over his face.

“Right...only there’s sixty people...seventy, more, crammed into each one. A single bucket for the lot of them and they're both supposed to piss and drink out of that bucket.” John fought the welling in his throat, swallowing the rest of his bourbon at once. “And those people are taken to camps where...the sky is full of smoke from great smoke stacks. Or to a deserted side track where they unload and march, and march, and march until they reach a great hole in the ground...full of lime and blood and the bodies of their neighbors.” 

John turned and went to the desk, perching there, pinning Joe with a hard, angry stare. “I know..it sounds unbelievable. I know...how could anyone be that evil, but I’m telling you, O’Hara...this is all real. And it’s happening right bloody now.” John’s jaw clenched aching hard. “In the camps...when they get there, the people are divided into lines. Women and children to the right. Men and young boys to the left. And then those lines...are divided again. The old, the sick, the weak...the babies, the toddlers, pregnant mothers...they go one direction. The strong...the young, they go another. The strong ones are forced into showers, told to strip naked. Every vestige of humanity is stripped from them. To keep the lice down in the camp they shave every head...men and women alike. And then they work and starve and torture the well ones to death.” 

John took in a breath through his nose. “ And the sick and the weak are...forced to strip naked in the yard. “Put your shoes ‘ere, put your underwear ‘ere, put your jewels ‘ere. It’ll all be returned once you’ve been deloused.” They are lead into a special shower house, and are gassed or shot, and their bodies are stacked...like...bricks, so that prisoners...fellow Jews who have managed to find a job that gets them better bread, better soup, can remove any gold teeth or crowns before the bodies become fuel for the ovens. And the ‘ole time the bloody SS are telling them, “They’ll be cared for. You’ll see them again. We’ve taken them to hospital.”” John was trembling. 

“They’ll be six...million...dead by the end of this bloody war...and not a single one of them took up arms...or wore a uniform.” 

The room was silent, the party easily filtering through below. They could both hear when the singer behind the microphone ended her song and began to cheerfully announce the birthday celebration for the hotel. She invited the guests to gather around and sing the birthday song for the grand lady. A party that seemed foolish and cruel in the wake of what John had said. 

“How…” Joe stared at the pages of chicken scratch, blotted with spots of ink where his hand had paused because his mind couldn’t process. “How can you possibly know all this.” 

John’s face warped into a cruel smile and he crossed his arms, pressing his lips hard together. He shook his head, staring at the floor. “That...you’re even less likely to believe.” 

“Try me.” 

John met Joe’s eyes and calculated for a second. “I’m from the future.” 

Joe laughed and leaned back in his chair. 

John sighed, knowing he’d instantly managed to lose all the ground he’d covered. 

“When..” 

“What?” 

“When in the future?” 

“2018.”

Joe’s eyes bulged open and he coughed softly, and the one question that he knew would never be answered popped to the front of his mouth, ready to be asked. 

The first bomb hit the hotel deafening their ears and making it impossible to hear the air siren. John felt the floor rock underneath him and pushed himself away from the desk, running for the door. A door that was opening, and showing a flash of red and white polka dots. 

Joe was right behind him when the second bomb hit. John heard the blast and spoke the quickest protection spell he could muster, grabbing Zari from the hall and turning and forcing Joe to the floor under him. Light flashed behind him and John could feel plaster, brick and wood cascading onto the shield. He dropped the spell the moment the rain of debris ended and turned to the door. It was wedged open and there were beams in the way. Beams that might have crushed Zari if she hadn’t chosen that precise moment to enter. 

Joe rose and they worked in silence to clear a path as quickly as possible. They were in the hallway when another explosion knocked them off their feet. A fourth bomb plunged through every story feet behind them before a gout of flame and metal burst up through the floor and filled the empty space. The three of them scrambled for the stairs at the end of the hallway. Even as Joe ran past him, John picked up speed to tamp out the flames that had latched onto the reporter’s jacket. They both put their shoulders to the door leading to the stairwell, then thundered down them, clinging to the banister as more bombs fell. Some further away in the city, some on the block. One in the stairwell behind him that ripped Zari’s hand from his. Then he was flying through the air and slamming into concrete and brick. He felt his right shoulder leave it’s socket then nothing. 

The ballroom was the first to be hit. A hole was punched in the wall nearest the bar and the lights went out instantly. Smoke and plaster, brick, nails, wood, fire. It all came through the hole, mowing down dancers and staff alike. A second bomb hit somewhere in the hotel and it was that one that deafened Ava, but she was still on her feet. She felt Nate behind her, his hands on her back, cold as steel. John and Zari were somewhere in the hotel and Behrad...dear god, he was as exposed as could be on the roof of the hotel. “Get to B...get him to safety. I’ll get the others.” Ava ordered and Nate left bruises on her arm, squeezing it to show he’d understood. Ava couldn’t hear the people screaming. She was stepping over bodies that might have been alive or dead. Every time she thought the bombs had moved on another one seemed to hit, rocking the hotel, causing the chandeliers to sway dangerously, knocking tables or glasses or people to the floor. 

Ava pressed on, determined to find her people and get them into a shelter. She made it into the lobby where the bellman tried to force her out of the hotel. He wouldn’t listen to her protests. She was told that she was injured and she needed to get to shelter and that didn’t make sense either. Her arm still stung from where Nate had squeezed her while steeled up but...no she was fine. She fought the arms trying to collect her until she saw Gary in the crowd, towering above most of the rest of them, weaving his way through. He looked terrified, panicked. Gideon must have made him some period clothing to wear because there was no way he could have found a tuxedo in his size in so little time. 

She was forced by the mass of the crowd trying to escape, out into the courtyard, out onto the sidewalk. There were sirens now, barely filtering through the ringing in her ears and Ava put her hands to her head, the pounding pain growing worse and worse with every breath. She had felt fine minutes before. When her hands came away bloody she felt her knees go out from under her. Someone picked her up, held her, carried her. The pain made her want to curl up and die. It wouldn’t stop...she couldn’t make it be less...she couldn’t make it go away. She went from a semi-comforting darkness to horrible, blinding light and pained sobs left her chest and her mouth but never reached her own ears. Before she returned to the darkness for good she was calling for Sara. Begging her to come back. Begging her to help take the pain away. 

Nate stormed up the stairs, ducking everytime a bomb exploded, or a gas line. It was hard to tell now what damage was caused by the bombs, or by the fire. He reached the first floor and it was a mess. So many rooms, so much debris. A maid lay at the entrance to the hall, legs splayed, eyes open and staring, blood down her chin and chest, not moving. Nate had to step past her, around her, to get to the beam blocking the hallway and move it. An elderly couple were pounding at their doorway just beyond it, screaming for help. Nate shouted for them to get back and ripped the door off its hinges. The couple inside stumbled into the hallway and went for the grand staircase, wailing in fear. Nate ran for the door at the other end of the hallway and had to warp the metal to get it open. He saw a flash of red and white polka dots and forced himself to slow down. The fabric was draped over a pile of concrete and twisted metal. There was smoke and dust choking the air in the narrow stair well and no windows to speak of. Nate needed light desperately and he had to turn away from the stairwell to find it. If he hadn’t...he would have missed Rory. 

“Mick!” Nate screamed, “Mick help me. It’s Zari...she’s trapped I can’t...I can’t see anything!” Mick was at the end of the hallway, staring at the destruction with a lost look on his face. But he’d heard his name and he bulled through, only giving Nate a cursory glance before he pulled out a flashlight that looked like a stick of chapstick in his hands. He shined it into the stairwell. 

They found her arm, a trickle of blood running down it towards the fake pearls on her wrist. When Nate knelt he could see her face, eyes closed, the minute rise and fall of her chest. “She’s alive.” Nate said, then shone the light around the rest of the opening calculating. He picked a spot to begin and Mick stood with him, hands grasping for each new piece of debris. 

Nate worked his way into the stairwell, away from where Zari was trapped, terrified that he was going to let loose an avalanche of debris that would crush her. He found the reporter first. He thought it was John for a minute before he remembered what the warlock had said about the American. Nate had just reached him when the man groaned softly and tried to push at the steel beam laying across him. 

“Hold it...wait. Let me-” And Nate moved to the wall to punch a hole in it. The steel was embedded in the concrete and had probably supported part of the staircase before. The only way to shift it would be to loosen or destroy the bolts holding it in place. Nate freed the other end, got under it and started forcing it upward, his body straining even with every muscle steeled. It took Mick and Joe to move enough debris and get him free. Blood coated the reporter’s leg and he couldn’t put weight on it. He was pale and shaking, but looking around for something. 

“John...and the girl, they were right behind me.” 

“Zari’s trapped. We’re getting her out...where’s John?” Nate asked, breathless. 

Eyes that were so like John’s met Nate’s but the man shook his head. “Emma...I’ve got to...I’ve got to find her.” 

“Mick..help him.” Nate said, and Mick nodded, guiding the delirious man through the debris. Nate could hear Zari shifting, could hear her breath quickening and he heard the first cry. It tore through him. Even if she wasn’t his Zari she was still like a sister to him. “I’m here...I’m here, Zari. I’m getting you out but you need to hold on. Hold still.” 

“John...where is he...he was right in front of me.” 

“I don’t know..I haven’t seen him yet. Hang on.” Nate worked his way closer making more and more holes in the outer wall. It was risky because so much of the staircase was supported by that wall, but there was nowhere else to put the debris, and getting back through the door and down the hall might be impossible. Nate used the flashlight to check his progress, turning the debris around Zari into a picture frame. The frame was protecting her, encasing her. He could leave the things that were above her but not the things touching her. He had to find what was touching her and get rid of that, bit by bit. “Can you move your hands, your arms?” 

“Yeah...yeah.” 

“What about your legs?” 

Zari groaned then cried out. “There’s something...pressure on my hips. It’s soft…” 

Nate found a shoe and he tossed it out of the way. One of Zari’s. He found more of her dress and worked to clear that part of the frame. 

Suddenly Zari was crying. “It’s John...he’s not moving. He’s not breathing.” Her voice went hoarse and choked out and all Nate could hear were panicked, wet breaths. 

“Breathe, Zari. I’m getting to you.” 

Pieces of concrete and bricks started flying from the hole Zari was in. He could hear them impacting the pile, pinging off of the metal beams. “Oh...god...John. Please, please.” 

When Nate found a pair of uniformed legs he dug upward. A section of staircase had fallen enough to wedge John and Zari into place. John was face down, laying over Zari’s legs. One of Constantine’s arms was twisted under him, the elbow and the shoulder joint looked wrong. The other had to have been above his head. 

To get Zari out Nate would need to lift the staircase, move John, then move Zari. It would have to happen quickly. There was no way to know what moving the stairs would do to the tonnage of debris on top of them. Nate wasn’t even sure he could move them. “Hang on...hang on, Zari.” 

“Nate?” 

“Mona! Thank god...help me. I need you to grab John’s legs, pull him out once I move this. Then help Zari.” 

The food delivery girl turned werewolf and legend was standing in the gap that Nate had knocked in the wall. She had chosen a sweater and skirt to wear that made her look like a Scooby Doo character. She held her hands above her head, gingerly picking her way into the stairwell. Nate thrust a hand out to guide her, steadying her until she was on semi-solid ground. 

“When I lift...grab his legs, pull straight out. Ok?” 

Mona nodded, her gentle hands grasping John’s pant legs, barely big enough to get around his ankles. Seconds before Nate steeled up and started to lift, her hands became muscled, clawed. Nate heard a guttural growl then lifted with everything he had left. He could feel muscles ready to pop in his back and legs, more weight than he’d taken before, pressing at his shoulders, but Mona tugged and John came free, sliding bonelessly across the debris. 

“Zari...get Zari!” 

Mona reached in again and this time Nate saw Zari’s arms appear, smeared with blood and scratches and bruises, but she was moving on her own. Mona got her out from under the stairs and picked her up entirely. 

“Get her out, I’ve got John.” Nate shouted. He dropped the stairs and lifted John in the same motion, bursting through the wall as the debris, unsettled, filled the space they had been in moments before. Smoke and dust billowed out of the holes Nate had knocked into the walls. He stood well back, felt John shifting in his arms, struggling to get loose. Nate let the warlock’s feet touch the ground and felt John taking most of his own weight. 

John’s voice was strained, and little more than a whisper, even that close to Nate’s ear. “The arm you’re holding onto...is likely to come off.” John bit out. Nate remembered the odd angle a second later and ducked under the arm he’d been holding across his shoulders, gently guiding it back to John’s side where he could support it himself. 

“Sorry..” Nate muttered and was surprised to have John turn into him, his good arm going around his neck, pulling him into an embrace. 

“Price I pay for havin’ you rescue me all the time.” John said, a wry smile on his face. Now that he was free of the stairwell Nate could see the blood that had dried, masking John’s face on the left side. They moved slowly, John stubbornly walking on his own, to where Mona had set Zari down. John found an awkward but effective way to get to the ground, his left side turned to Zari. He pulled her against him and she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing softly. 

Nate turned, found Mona staring at him, and pulled her into a tight hug that she returned as fiercely, shifting from Wolfy as she did. “God it’s good to see you guys. We were- Behrad.” 

“We’ve got him. He’s on the ship. He’s fine. Ava’s there too.” 

“Okay...okay.” Nate breathed, his eyes turning up to the hotel. A water wagon had arrived and was pumping water at the flames belching from one corner of the hotel. People were still filtering out and there were bodies, living and dead, lining the sidewalk and the street. Nate found a lamppost to lean against and stared, unable to look away. Inside the hotel had been confusion and chaos. Outside wasn’t that much better but at the very least he could see the damage that had been done. There were other buildings hit too, other fires, other screams, other bodies. But the hotel had been so vibrant. So very alive on the anniversary night of its birth...to see it pummeled in that way…

A woman came up to him, laid a hand on his arm and Nate blinked, looking down. He barely recognized the assistant manager. She had blood smeared on the front of her coat, coating her hands, spilling from a small wound on her head. She had been crying and it showed, but she was trying a smile on.

“Joe...O’Hara. He asked me to give you this.” She said, holding out an equally blood stained paper, folded three times. “He said you should give it to John. And...I wanted to thank you...for saving Joe.” She moved to her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, her hand closing around his arm before she stepped away. 

Nate couldn’t help the small smile. The gentility of the era...even in the face of a horrific tragedy such as this...hadn’t been lost completely. He felt warmth blossoming in his chest and pocketed the note she had given him before he went back to Mona and the others. Nate helped John up, and Mona helped Zari. They moved away from the mess, down an alley where Mona could open a portal that would get them back to the ship. Mick and Gary were waiting in the infirmary, preparing more beds, running extra IV lines, ready for the living and breathing Legends they had faith would return. 

For an hour the focus was on each of the bodies in the room. Behrad had managed to get in contact with the Waverider seconds before she appeared on the horizon and had been picked up almost instantly. The planes coming in had driven the Waverider back to where it was now parked, in the southernmost part of Wales, in a deserted sheep pasture. Behrad had convinced the others to monitor from there. Going in, in the midst of a bombing, would mean disaster for all of them. He’d stayed on the Waverider to set up the infirmary and get food fabricating. 

When Eva returned, unconscious and bloodied, he’d almost forgotten what all of them had looked like. Worn, thin, exhausted. He’d done everything he could to make Eva comfortable even as Gideon scanned her. 

“Miss Sharpe has a dangerous concussion and minor skull fracture. I’m administering a sedative. There is some swelling to the brain, and a minor brain bleed. She is malnourished and is suffering from a cold. She should eat as soon as she is conscious.” 

John and Zari came in together with a stiff Nate. John had a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, a concussion and the familiar mix of malnutrition and exhaustion. Zari had fractures in both her feet, bruises and cuts and a few cracked ribs. They were both dosed right away and John’s shoulder was put back into place by a curiously eager Mick before he was allowed to rest. Nate had managed to tear a dozen muscles and had a minor tear in a tendon in his shoulder. His hands were battered, bruised and swelling from his frantic pawing through debris and he couldn’t force his muscles to relax. He was given a banana, muscle relaxants and then put to sleep the minute he lay down. 

Each of the wounded were gently coaxed out of their clothes and into loose pajama tops and bottoms an hour later, covered with warmed blankets and left in Gideon’s care. When they went to do the same for Ava she woke. At first groggy and incoherent, her awareness sharpened as she was moved around and she latched a hand onto Gary, determined to get his full attention. 

“Don’t leave...Gare. You can’t..” 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here, I promise.” 

“NO..no. I mean...we’re not done. We can’t leave here..now. Please. Mission’s not done...understand. Plea-please.” 

“Ok...ok. We won’t leave. I promise. We’re still in England. We won’t leave.” Gary had to make his promise three or four times before Ava finally let go of her tenuous hold on consciousness. He’d said it enough times that he intended to keep it. The Legends weren’t done yet. Not by a long shot.


	4. Part 1

Chapter 4

John had to report back for duty. To keep his cover and avoid being accused of going AWOL he had to report back the next day. Gideon had cleaned his uniform and fabricated extra clothes, money and identification for him. She’d given him pain pills, antibiotics and Nate made sure John got the note from Emma Garland. Better still, they had new comms. Confident that he wasn’t alone, and he was healthier and better equipped than he had been in months, John walked through a portal into an abandoned alley the following evening and reported to his commanding officer. With his ID, Gideon had fabricated a release from the hospital that would explain John’s disappearance. His commander didn’t bat an eye. 

“I heard about the Halcyon. Most of your mates made it out of there all right. You’ll find them at the gun. Glad you’re alive, John.” John got a handshake and a pat on the back. Since the hospital release had given him a clean bill of health he had the freedom to return to duty. Nate had promised that the night would be quiet and John relished the chance to enjoy the chatter of men and boys ten years younger than himself, bragging about their bravery at the Halcyon, and demanding details from John about his girlfriend. 

John served his duty that night and went back to the barracks for a few hours of sleep before venturing out into the city. Nate’s promise of a reprieve, John could see, was something the city desperately needed. There were still fires burning, even 48 hours after the bombings. The YMCAs, churches and hotels in the city were full of Brits who no longer had homes or livelihoods. The constabularys and firehouses were temporary morgues. As far as Gideon knew, Joe O’Hara remained at the Halcyon even after the bombing, occupying a room that hadn’t been destroyed. 

When John arrived he was surprised to see most of the debris cleared away. The parts of the hotel that had been hit were covered with canvas and blocked off on the inside by the velvet ropes that usually closed off the staff areas. John stepped into the lobby, the floors still shining from a recent mopping, and spotted Emma Garland at the front desk. She wore black, and she had been crying, judging by the redness around her eyes and nose. John only remembered so much about the night of the bombing. He knew that Emma’s father was the manager and he feared the worst as he approached the counter. 

When Emma looked up her eyes lit and she smiled brilliantly, coming around the end and throwing her arms around him. “John ! Forgive me..I...it’s good to see you.” She said, stepping back and blushing. John pulled her back against him, returning the embrace, his hand resting against the side of her face for a moment. 

“Same, love. Are you alright? Is your father alright? Is Joe alright?” 

Emma’s smile remained and she nodded to each of his questions. “Joe is in his room. He broke his leg pretty badly but he insists on hobbling about with his crutches. Father is fine. Stubborn and determined to keep the hotel running. I’m fine.” Her smile waned, and he could see the tears. He produced a kerchief and offered it to her, but she had one crumbled and wrinkled in her fist and she caught the tears before they could fall. 

“We lost Betsy. And the band leader.” 

“The singer?” John asked, remembering the vibrant brunette. He vaguely recalled an African man at the keyboard. “I’m….I’m sorry, Emma.” 

Emma drew a wet breath through her nose and straightened her back, and the courageous smile that pressed her lips together wormed its way into John’s heart, endearing her to him in an instant. John could see why Joe had fallen for her. 

“We were hoping you would be alright.” Emma said. “It’s...so wonderful to see you. And Miss...em.” 

“Zari. She’s alright. Resting where she’s safe.” 

“Good. Joe will want to see you. He’s in the east wing, first floor. Room 109.” 

When Joe answered the door, despite a broken leg, he was still dressed in his vest and pants, shirt sleeves crimped by sleeve garters, glasses on. John had a hand thrust into his. “Thank god. I feared the worst for you.” 

They spent the afternoon and into the evening hours talking, pacing the room, collaborating as John revealed what he could about the future, and about the present atrocities across the channel. Joe put together a radio program, the first of a series that would alert anyone listening to what was happening in the heart of Axis held territory. 

“Anyone over there who is actively opposing the men behind all this...anyone who has been arrested and suspected of treason. This broadcast could be their death sentence, John.” Joe said finally, laying his glasses against the typewritten pile of scripts. 

“What if you reveal your source...cleverly. Subtly. Start an internal battle in the propaganda department in Berlin...call him...your German friend, Johann Schmidt.” John offered. 

Joe gave him a smile as he thought about it. “Maybe...maybe.” He winced and shifted his leg, his pen still perched over his pointer finger as the pads of his fingertips slid lightly over the pages. “This could make me or ruin me.” He shook his head. “I gotta say I’m...I’m putting more trust in you than anyone I’ve ever known.” 

John’s eyebrows went up and he nodded, knowing exactly what the man meant. He had a good idea of how he felt. He pulled a thin book from his uniform coat pocket. It was a pamphlet very like the ones that were on display outside the Holocaust Museum at the Smithsonean in Washington D.C. John handed it over and Joe put his glasses on to look through the front and back tri-fold. It contained a map of the museaum, collages of photos of the artifacts on display, and an announcement about a historical talk that a survivor would be giving at three separate times each day. The front photo was of the building itself, surrounded by modern cars, traffic lights, walking signals, people on cell phones. 

John sat quietly and watched the reporter. Gideon’s research had revealed that Joe O’Hara had worked in D.C. for a year and a half before heading to London. He would recognize the streets and the landmarks, the building the museum had been located in. Joe spent fifteen minutes looking, staring at the date on the pamphlet displaying the museum times for the 2018-2019 season, running his fingers over the photos that had been printed and pasted to the walls of the museum itself. Piles of wedding rings taken from concentration camp victims. Photos of starving, skeletal survivors. 

“I wanted it to be a lie.” Joe said, finally putting the pamphlet down. He winced softly and turned from John to swipe at his face before he turned his head, eyeing the scripts. “I want you in the studio with me. Make sure I get it right. Do that for me...and I’ll plug this story til the penguins hear it in antarctica.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, mate.” John said, locking eyes with the reporter. They shook hands and John left, headed back to the Waverider before he had to report for duty. 

***

Zari limped into the kitchen area and settled herself on a chair, raising both of her booted feet onto the seat closest to her. John followed her in with two ice bags and fed into the fabricator the ingredients for the mostly kale and nastiness smoothie she was determined to have. The drink appeared, along with a cup of steaming coffee that John was going to need to make it through the night. He brought both to the table and sat close enough to Zari so that she could comfortably lean into him. His arm fell around her and a familiar feeling of rightness settled around him that he breathed in. They sat together quietly, eyes closed, resting. Zari could smell the antique aftershave on John, the wool of his uniform coat, the faint scent of cigar smoke telling her that John had spent the afternoon with Joe. He’d already told her the gist of the conversation. 

“I heard most of what you told Joe...the night of the bombing. Ava had me follow you just in case. It sounded...it sounded like you’d actually been there.” She said, shifting so that she could see his face. 

John sighed. “Not me, love.” He said softly. “An old mate of mine. He was an old man when I knew him. Sweet...lost his partner to AIDS, back when everybody thought you had to be gay or a junkie to get it. And...he was jewish. Born in France, tossed in a concentration camp at the age of 21. Watched his family die. Watched them beat his pregnant mother to a pulp before tossing her into a gas chamber.” John sipped his coffee, no longer able to taste it for the bile rising in his throat. “In a year’s time he’ll be deported to Germany and interned in Buchenwald.” 

“What if we found him? Saved him?” 

“Michael met his partner at the camp. They were together for thirty-five years, deliriously happy. Who knows what’ll change if he doesn’t go through that hell. I asked him that question...once. If he had known what was going to happen...would he have done anything differently. You know what he said?” 

Zari shook her head, her eyes wide, captivated by a part of John she rarely saw. 

“He said, “I’d want my sister to survive. I’d save the unborn baby those bastards killed. But the rest...the rest was inevitable.” 

“Hey guys…” 

John rocked his head back and gave Gary a smirk as he came in, clearly hesitant. “Gary, mate. How’s our fearless leader?” 

“Sleeping. Gideon says she needs to stay still for a few more days, give her brain time to heal. And Zari isn’t supposed to be up..” Gary said cautiously. 

John smirked and kissed Zari as her lips turned up to his. “You’ve been caught playing hooky, love.” 

“If you weren’t in the army, you’d be right there with me.” Zari shot back. “I promise I’ll go to bed in my own room in a bit, Gary.” 

“Yeah...I believe that.” Gary said dryly, remaining where he was. 

“I need to report back, anyway.” John said, groaning reluctantly. He pushed his chair back slowly, letting Zari right herself, before he stood, kissed her, and headed out of the room. 

Gary sat in the seat John had vacated and sniffed at the half finished cup of coffee. 

“He’s changing.” Zari said softly, thoughtfully. 

“He’s been through a lot.” Gary added, knowing that the John he’d apprenticed under had more hidden layers of dark, depressing horrors than anyone else he’d ever known. 

“He said that Joe was going to go through with the broadcast. We’ll need to monitor history...make sure nothing...you know, blows up or anything.” 

“I’ve got that part covered.” Behrad said, entering the kitchen. He held a time monitor in his hands and had one airpod bud in his ear, monitoring the silent device. 

He ordered the makings for a sandwich from the fabricator and stood at the counter assembling a monstrosity that only someone high as a kite could crave. Zari had been very aware of Behrad’s withdrawal while they were stuck in the past. It didn’t surprise her in the least that he had gone straight for his stash the moment he had a break. 

“So far the timeline looks relatively stable.” Behrad reported through a mouthful of sandwich. The last of his statement ended in a delighted moan and he stood at the counter with his eyes rolled back in his head, oblivious to the two people making disgusted faces at him. “So good…GOD I missed processed cheese.” 

“You actually asked Gideon to fabricate processed cheese?” Zari stared awed. 

“Nostalgia, sis, is a powerful thing.” The absolutely serious look on her brother's face reminded her so much of Behrad’s narrow escapes from trouble when they were younger and she fought hard to control the grin on her face. Behrad winked at her then cleared his throat. “Anyway, the biggest changes have been a few new books, one Broadway play and a couple of movies. Nothing life changing.” 

Gary shrugged. “Life changing for the people who wrote those things.” 

Zari smiled softly to herself and sipped from her smoothie. She remembered the kids and wondered which one of them would grow up to be an author or a screenwriter. She wondered if she would make it into the script and which actor would play her. She wondered if in her alternate past, their future, she would be recognized by a survivor. 

The thoughts followed her all the way back to her bedroom and into the soft pile of blankets and pillows and mattress, and then into her dreams. 

***

History changed for the worse the moment Joe started his first broadcast. 

“Mr. O’Hara will be murdered some time in the next 48 hours. His body is found floating in the Thames.” 

Behrad got the news to John right away and Mick stepped in, an imposing and frightening figure in a British uniform. John and Mick dogged O’Hara for two days but the threat to his life kept moving. They did everything they could to identify who it was that wanted to silence the reporter. They couldn’t even be certain of which side the murderer was on. All Gideon could give them were theories and the same image over and over from the newspapers. A photo that had been taken of Joe by a fellow reporter and the headline, American Newsman Slain! 

“Maybe we need to back away...leave Joe on his own for a bit as bait.” John suggested after a week of frustration and hours spent in the recording booth with an increasingly irritated Rory. 

He got the usual protests but managed to convince the group that it was worth a try and that he and Rory, with Nate as backup, would be able to stop anyone coming after the American. After making a big show of saying goodnight to the reporter in the hotel bar, Rory and John headed out into the night, leaving Nate and a disguised Zari in the hotel to watch over O’Hara. 

John created a glamour of himself reporting for duty at the guns, but stayed inside the stairwell of the hotel, waiting. Mick went back to the ship to help Behrad monitor...and to get a drink. 

Nothing happened that night, or the next night. On the third evening O’Hara insisted that he had to present something in his broadcasts other than the script he and John had devised and the American made his rounds, crutch in hand, through the war department, and the various defense stations around the city before heading out to the nearest airfield to talk with the pilots. 

Nate disguised himself as a cabby and was in the car with Joe, John following behind them in a car of his own, when the assassin’s struck. On a sunny country road, trees recently divested of their leaves, and with snow falling in thick sheets, two cars stopped them on the road. The cars were empty, parked in the shape of a chevron to completely block passage on the road. Drainage ditches on either side made it impossible to drive around them. Nate started backing up even as the masked men jumped up from behind the parked cars and started pelting them with bullets. 

John abandoned his car and charged towards the cab, protection spell in place, reflecting bullets back at the enemy. Nate had managed to steel up and Joe had ducked down between the seats. The bombardment continued, half of the guns swaying to point at John. Even masked and clothed in black, their confusion was evident. 

John poured more energy into the spell and did his best to widen the shield so that it covered the entire cab. “Can’t hold it forever, let’s go!” He shouted. 

Joe threw his door open and spilled out onto the concrete. Nate collapsed onto the road way, grunting as he reverted to flesh and blood splattered onto the snow under his belly. John swore and shouted, “Joe, help him!” 

Joe struggled to his feet, dragging Nate with him, the two hobbling dangerously slow.

Even as they retreated to the car that John had been driving the masked men were rounding the cars and coming after them with what seemed like an endless supply of ammunition. 

“We need a time portal, right bloody now!” John screamed and a window appeared behind him. John pushed what remained of his strength into the shield, doubling its size and strengthening it even as his head threatened to explode with pain. He backed slowly toward the portal, holding the shield until he felt the conditioned air of the Waverider enter his lungs. The portal closed, John dropped the shield and his knees hit the floor of the hallway, his heart pounding, threatening to arrest. 

“John!” Gary called, somewhere behind him. 

“Help Nate and Joe. I’m fine.” John called back, struggling to keep from swaying or collapsing. He could hear the others talking, moving, retreating behind him. “Gideon! Timeline, love.” 

“Unchanged..for the moment.” 

John nodded and felt something warm slide from his nose. His fingers came away bloody. He shifted, plopping on his butt and leaning his shoulders against the wall, legs flopping out in front of him. It didn’t take long for him to pass out. 

***  
Nate had taken a bullet to the stomach, seconds before he’d managed to steel up. The steel had slowed the bullet’s progress enough that Nate avoided losing part of his stomach, or anything else vital. He was, however, instructed to stay in the infirmary for two days. And Ava, still unsteady on her feet, saw to it that Nate did as he was told. Joe was treated by Gideon and was able to leave the cumbersome cast on the ship, barely limping when he returned to London.

John, Joe and Mick opened a doorway to 1940 on Halloween Night. According to Gideon the attacks weren’t likely to stop. She still stubbornly presented the doomed headline, and little else in the way of information. When Joe returned to his room at the Halcyon he found he had a letter. It was signed, “A concerned friend” and told him in no uncertain terms that he was to stop revealing classified information on the public radio or risk being deported. The note had been delivered two days before. 

“This reeks of bloody MI-5.” John declared, pacing around the room the following afternoon. 

“Sure...the note. But would MI-5 hijack us on an open roadway? Risk the lives of other innocents, just to see me dead? That had to have been someone else.” 

“Why…?” John demanded through gritted teeth. “What’s the bloody angle? What does MI-5 care about der Fuhrer’s extermination plan?” 

“Unless the British government is part of it…” Joe threw out. 

“Bloody...German delegates were rumored to have been sent to the allied nations at the start of the extermination. Germany had been threatening France, Britain, Spain, Russia, Italy, Austria...all while plowing through Poland. The bastards offered neutrality treaties if the various governments would agree to deport Jewish nationals. ‘Ow much you want to bet, MI-5 has an olive branch hanging in the balance, promising to hand over British Jews to stop the bombings?” 

“Goddamn…” Joe swore, eyes wide, staring at the warlock. “God...bloody...damn. I stirred up one hell of a hornet’s nest.”

They were silent for a moment before Joe asked the obvious question. “What do we do?” 

Too many ideas collided in John’s brain at once and he sat himself down before his strained body did it for him. “Guarantee that if you start naming names on the broadcast they’ll shut you down, discredit you, try and try again to kill you.” 

Joe nodded. “There’s no telling if anyone’s heard the broadcast, other than MI-5. Or if they’ve even believed it.” 

“The Jews have heard it. And believed it.” Nate said, slipping into the room with little more than a knock to announce himself. He moved gingerly, wincing softly as he lowered himself into a chair. “They’re leaving Europe in droves. Being blocked from entering other countries. There are camps of Jewish refugees in the Middle East, spilling over with a melting pot of cultures.” Nate took a breath then cocked his head to the side and explained, “Gideon gave us some new info. And...Ava is taking a nap.” 

John snorted softly. 

Joe sat, staring at the floor for a few minutes before he said, “The Jews have been listening because it’s a threat to their lives. It’s their children, their parents, their loved ones at risk, so they took heed. What if we change the broadcast. Start rumors that British POWs are being tortured for information, executed in these same camps. American citizens, captured after U-boat attacks on ships, being sent to these camps to be worked to death.” 

“Liars don’t start winning until the 1960’s…” Nate muttered, giving Joe a wry smile. “Not the best approach in the middle of a war. I mean..it may work in the end, but you’d be the one facing libel, treason...who knows what else.” 

“Maybe it’s worth it.” Joe said. 

“Mate...you could be the world’s greatest reporter if you stick out the next forty years or so. The war trials alone would set you for life. It isn’t worth tossing your name in the rubbish, believe me.” 

“War trials?” 

“Aye.” 

Nate cleared his throat. “The uh...the allies hunt down Nazi war criminals and put them on trial. All of it is..recorded, televised. Books, movies, tv shows. The atrocities may have happened, but some justice is served in the end.” 

Joe stared at him, then straightened in his chair. “Am I right in understanding that you want me to drop this now?” 

Nate shrugged, the act both non-commital and affirmative. 

Joe pushed to his feet. “I can’t do that. Not knowing what I know. I’m not just a reporter...the word investigative stands in front of it. That means that I don’t wait for the information to find me...I go out and I get it.” 

Joe stood, framed by the white light coming from the window in front of his desk. His hands perched on his hips, his back slightly arched, the light made him look too thin to be healthy, his jaw sharp, determined. A moment later he was moving around the room shoving things into a bag. 

The first thing he grabbed was the tube containing the map of camps that Nate had given him. “I’ve got some friends at the flying field. I’m sure one of them can drop me in Belgium, France…” 

“Now, hold on a minute-” John started.

“They can’t make a liar out of me if I have first hand accounts. I’ll talk to the...to the people who live near the camps. I’ll need to find a translator.” 

“Joe, slow down, you’re talking suicide here.” Nate leaned forward, his voice louder.

“I’ll get a camera, take pictures..footage of the camps. Like those pictures you showed me, John. Only it won’t be after the camps are liberated, it’ll be here and now.” 

“Joe...bloody hell...stop a minute, alright?” 

Joe stopped, his hands still holding the shirt he was shoving into the bag. They all noticed that the hand was trembling. “I have to do this, John. I know too much to ignore it, now.” 

John sucked a hard breath in through clenched teeth and shook his head, squirming with indecisiveness. “Alright fine...but I’m going with you.” 

“John..” Nate began. 

“Someone has to, and we know it can’t be you. Nor Zari, Behrad and certainly not Mick.” 

“Ava won’t approve this.” 

“She won’t have to.” 

“John, she’s going to stop you.” 

John dug the comm out of his ear and tossed it to Nate. “I quit...alright. Tell Zari-” 

Nate had caught the comm and was working his way to his feet when he interrupted the warlock. “I’m not telling Zari a damn thing, John. We’re not out of options here. And you know, first hand that some things in history are inevitable. We can’t save everyone. The reason we came here in the first place was to stop someone from killing Hitler...because the end result was more death, more destruction, not less.” 

“He’s right.” Joe said. “I need to do this on my own. I can’t...I won’t risk anyone else. You’ve got Zari to look after, John.” 

“John..we’ve got other fish to fry. Gideon didn’t just tell me about the refugees. We’ve got another alert. And it’s a big one.” Nate said. “We need to step away from this, while we still can.” 

John ground his teeth, his jaw bulging. His whole body was rocking with the pent up frustration, the desperate need to act. The absolute assurance that he was once more leaving someone behind to die because of his own arrogance. The one thing he wasn’t sure about, was that insisting on staying would make things better, instead of worse. He only knew that his conscience would rather he stay, die a martyr for the cause, than live another day with a news clipping in his pocket to answer the questions he had now. John looked up to Joe. “They’ll kill you. If they catch you. They won’t bat an eye.” 

“I’m pretty sure none of those bombers were stricken with guilt the night I met you, John. I know the risks. It’s my job to take them.” Joe held his hand out and after a moment John took it. 

“You’d best make a huge bloody difference, mate.” 

Joe smirked at him, then let his hand go, and John turned, walking through the door without a word or a glance to Nate, slamming the door behind him for the satisfaction of it. 

Nate winced then took the hand that Joe offered him. “The latest we had from Gideon didn’t say anything about you going into German occupied territory. That means...as far as we know...that part of history hasn’t been written yet. Consider your future your own, man.” Nate said. 

Joe grinned at him brightly, fiercely. “Thanks, son. Take care of the arrogant bastard for me.” 

Nate smirked and laughed softly. “Good luck.” 

END OF PART I


	5. Part II

Chapter 5

An hour after they had finished their mission John stormed into Ava’s quarters and slapped a newspaper down in front of her. 

“He died. Days after we left. Shot and drowned. His ship attacked trying to get across the channel. He never even made it to Belgium.” 

Ava looked at the newspaper, not willing to touch it. “John, I’m not the in the mood for this-” 

“I wasn’t in the mood to bloody return, but I did it out of loyalty to you lot. Look what that did.” 

“He's just one man!” Ava shouted. John didn’t respond, his face fuming. “One man out of millions that died during World War II.” 

“I’m just one man.” He said, jabbing at himself. “Nate’s just one man. Ray was just one man. Mick is just one man.” 

“That’s different-” 

“How!? The only difference I see is that we’ve got talents you realized you could turn to your advantage. But a lowly, vanilla, reporter...he’s no use to the timeline is he, so we let him die, no matter his good intentions. No matter the differences he could have made.” 

“We can’t...save...everyone, John.” Ava shouted back, her tone matching the warlock’s. “We can’t even save Sara!” 

“Ah…” John stepped back a bit, an angry smile on his lips. “That’s it then...so long as that bloody alarm isn’t going off, the only one we care about is your lover.” 

Ava looked stung, and her tone grew deadly. “We are rescuing a lost member of our team. The woman who recruited you, and who saved your life more than once. We don’t leave people behind.” 

“I left O’Hara behind!” John spat back. “Apparently...I’m the only one who gives a damn about that.” 

“No...John.” 

“I’m done. I’m going back to 1940, and I’m helping O’Hara complete what he set out to do.” 

“No...John, you can’t do that..we need-” 

“I...need... to do this, Ava. All you have to do is help me kit up and leave me there. Then you can wash your hands of me.” 

“John..please. See reason-” 

“It’s the Holocaust. A time in history when entire bloody nations ignored a genocide happening under their noses. There’s no reason to be seen. It’s all bleedin’ madness.” 

Ava stood slowly and closed herself off, clasping her hands in front of her and meeting John’s eyes with all her shields in place. “Get what you need from the fabricator and go.” 

Ava saw the surprise in John’s eyes, however well he hid it, but she didn’t respond. John scooped up the newspaper and walked out of the room. Ava waited until he was truly gone, her door closed. She turned the lights down and she turned on a series of holographic messages that Sara had sent her in the past, meant for her eyes only. She watched them, curled on her bed, staining the pillow with the pain settling into her heart. 

John left after Zari had gone to sleep. He didn’t leave a note. Having her hate him was easier than her pining over him, or worrying for him. He shouldered the pack full of gear that Gideon had fabricated, straightened the jacket of his uniform, and stepped through the portal connected to London, minutes after they had left it. 

***

He found Joe in his room, phoning for a cab while continuing to pack. 

Joe laughed at him. “You can’t have changed your mind already, you’ve barely left.” 

“Time’s uh...funny, like that.” John said, stepping into the room and setting his pack down. 

Joe studied him for a minute then said, “I die. Don’t I?” 

“In two days.” John said simply. “Tryin’ to cross the English Channel.” 

“Ah.” Joe said, and plopped down in a chair, his thumb and forefinger scratching the day’s worth of stubble on his chin. “So...you’re here to...stop me?” 

“I’m here to get you there. Keep you alive. See this through to the bitter end.” John smiled wryly at the last statement. 

“Ok.” Joe said, nodding to himself, before he took another breath and stood. “Ok. Time traveler, what’s our first step.” 

“You said you had a friend in the RAF? Our best bet is likely to be a parachute drop north of Belgium. It’ll take some time but we’ll be able-”

“Wait...parachute? What about that ship of yours...can’t we just take that. Open one of those doorways into Belgium?” 

John winced. “I’m afraid it’s just me and my wits, mate. Considerable wits, mind you, but the rest of the team isn’t interested in fiddling about in 1940 anymore.” 

“And you are…”

“Yeah…” John said, narrowing his eyes. Waiting for the question that he couldn’t even answer to his own satisfaction.

“Why?” Joe asked. “I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, believe me...I just can’t imagine anyone wanting to go back into a warzone.” 

John smirked and laughed. “You recently turned down the opportunity to work for a television studio in New York. You chose to stay in London, broke your leg in a bomb raid, and now you’re preparing to go even further into the lion’s den. What’s your reason?” 

“The work. It needs to be done by someone and...it’s worth it.” Joe said, only pausing a moment before he spoke. 

John nodded. “Same.” 

“Alright then...you were saying...about parachutes?” 

***

On November 3rd Constantine and O’Hara were dropped by an aqua plane on the beaches of Denmark, north of Belgium. Half the British pounds that John had asked Gideon to fabricate went into the hands of the pilot, and another third went toward outfitting them both with supplies, film and two cameras. They carried a radio transmitter that could be broken down or assembled in under an hour, warm clothes and sturdy boots for the coming winter, food and a simple canvas tent that they carried between them. They had cut the map into equal squares and kept all the pieces scattered throughout their gear as an extra precaution. John had traded his uniform coat for a civilian jacket and Joe wore sturdy pants, shirt, jacket and cap that would withstand the miles of ground they had to cover on foot. 

They were also both armed with pistols. John divided the remaining British notes between them as a fall back should they be separated. They traveled together at night, finding barns or abandoned houses to sleep in. They so rarely used the tent that John was ready to ditch it. That night they were set upon by a snow storm and had no shelter available to them but the tent. They pitched it against the side of a rocky outcropping and built a small fire. John’s propensity for using his magic to create flame came in handy, and shocked the hell out of O’Hara. They barely slept through the following day, John sharing stories from his past, careful not to reveal too much about Joe’s future. They covered fewer miles the following evening, but it was just as well. They came within ten miles of a town that John recognized as having been included in Nate’s map and found a shed to shelter in, planning the next few days before they rested. 

“That...see that...west of Ruhr. That’s an euthenasia site. Right on the border. Not a bad place to start.” John pointed to the square of map he held in his hand, smoke filtering out of his mouth. Joe took the piece of the map from him and jotted some notes down in his book. 

“I’m not much of a photographer. I assume you can handle getting the photos.” 

“Oh yeah. Not a problem. The tricky part will be looking and sounding German. Luckily, I was given a free hand with what I could take from the ship before I left. I whipped up a passel of these bad boys for us.” John reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle of pills. “Dissolve in liquid for ten minutes, then drink and say the magic words. These are condensed Babel Root. Only found in Jerusalem and thankfully I had a bit in my cupboard before I left. They’ll make every word you hear understandable, and likewise every word you speak. One universal language, like in the Bible.” 

Joe snorted, giving John a look that said the warlock had taken one step too many out of reality. 

“Don’t give me that look, I’ve used this before. It works wonders. Especially if you have to say a summoning spell in a hundred different languages and don’t have a lifetime to learn them all.” 

“What are the magic words?” 

“I’ll teach ‘em to ya. Just keep in mind, they have a limited working life. A few hours at most. And doubling up on the pills will only give you a stomach ache. One at a time, and use them sparing like.” 

“Got it.” Joe said, shaking his head. He handed the pills back and reached for his notebook again, leaning back on an elbow to write. John added wood to the fire and lay back on his bedroll, enjoying the last of an honest to god, English cigarette. The wind was blowing lightly outside their shelter, seeping through the cracks, but there was a humidity that promised the next day would be warmer. 

After he’d filled two or three pages Joe snorted. “I’ve had to stop myself from writing a certain phrase a dozen times.” 

John glanced over. 

“This is batshit crazy.” 

Both men chuckled, each in his own way agreeing with the sentiment. “It’s about time, though.” Joe said. 

They were quiet, John waiting, knowing there was more. 

“The girl at the hotel, the assistant manager. She serves in one of the women’s volunteer services and I happened to be out with her one night during an air raid. She was...fearless...no...undaunted.” Joe nodded to the word. “Her sense of duty and rightness, her focus, was so fine that she didn’t flinch at the bombs falling around us. We found a woman...she was badly hurt, but she insisted that we get her mother out of a house that was barely standing. Only her mother was dead. The hurt woman...she didn’t want the carrion to get at her mother’s body, but the ambulances wouldn’t take anyone but the living. So Emma and I, we stayed with the body all night. It was freezing, dark...still.” Joe’s voice trailed off. “The sense of loyalty that she felt for her country, I haven’t felt for America since this war began. But if she were to throw her hand in, especially if I can get proof of this genocide plan.” 

“They do.” 

“Hmm?” 

John pushed himself up on his elbows. “America joins the war, in 1941.” 

“Next year.” 

A part of John was dying to tell O’Hara about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. But he knew he couldn’t. Like Hitler’s rise to power, it was an atrocity that was needed, to push the great lurking world power into play. The injustice would spark passionate retribution in the breasts of hundreds of thousands of American boys and men, resulting in unprecedented enlistment numbers. Those numbers were necessary. Nothing but a cowardly attack by the Japanese, days after they had promised to remain neutral to America, could spark such a passion. 

Joe was watching him. Watching the anger and frustration play across his face. He’d been about to ask, but realized he shouldn’t...realized John couldn’t tell him. In the end, despite his curiosity, Joe decided he didn’t want to know. 

They fell into silence and the wind spoke for them until both had fallen asleep and the fire had cooled to embers. 

The next morning they consolidated most of their gear into one pack. The plan was to bury the pack a few miles outside of the city and enter via the river road. With the travel papers John had fabricated, indicating that he and Joe were officials from the propaganda office, they could take notes, pictures, ask questions, and were likely to be welcomed into most homes with very little todo. Both wore velcro patches on their coats that showed the appropriate insignia. They both took a dose of the Babel Root minutes before entering the city. 

Welmer was fairly large. It likely had a population of 40,000 at the time. What started out as guttural, meaningless chatter surrounding them became clear, accented English as the Babel Root took affect. 

They explored the city. Most of the work in Welmer was to be had in fertilizer factories that dotted the north end and lumber mills in the south. The city was surrounded by low foothills and forests. The architecture reflected more the tastes of their northern neighbors than what they were likely to see closer to Berlin. 

John couldn’t help but feel like a tourist, staring at the buildings, the people. The bright red flags with Swastikas flying under bigger flags showing the nation’s colors. Soldiers and Hitler youth could be seen sparingly, making John doubt that they’d arrived in the right place. Further...he saw no one wearing a star on their coat. No sections of the city separated from the rest by hastily built walls or barbed wire. No faint gunshots in the distance. But of course it wouldn’t have been that easy. 

They spent a few days familiarizing themselves with the city and the people in it, pouring over maps and deciding where the euthenasia sites were most likely to be. More than once, John mourned not having Nate and his encyclopedic knowledge at hand. 

They were in a pub settling back for the first pint of German brew that they’d had a chance to sample when a uniformed SS Ensign entered and made straight for their table. The young man couldn’t have been older than 18, but he carried himself like a man of 40. He snapped his heels and gave his salute. 

“My commanding officer invites you to his quarters for dinner this afternoon. He is anxious to know what the propaganda office thinks of his work in Welmer and wishes to offer you any assistance you may require.” 

John accepted the invitation for both of them, giving the names that he and Joe had settled on. Joseph and Johann Schmidt would be happy to attend. They were given a formal invitation complete with the eagle letterhead and the enlisted man left with the same brevity. 

“Clearly we’ve made a splash.” Joe smirked, speaking quietly. 

John felt a burning at the pit of his stomach and felt the power of the Babel Root fading from the back of his mind. He held his finger up to Joe, then produced two more pills, dumping them promptly into the steins of beer. He spoke the appropriate incantation softly and they drank, both waiting for the familiar burn in their stomach’s indicating the root had once more found its way into their systems.

“I’ve been keepin’ track. Five hours is the average time we have with these. If we’re going to keep ourselves from being shot as spies tonight, we’ll need to keep a close eye on the time.” John handed an extra pill to Joe and pocketed his own. “Round six o’clock.” He added, before tapping the mouth of his stein against Joe’s and drinking half of it. The beer was strong, nearly flat and bitter, served at room temperature. Absolutely disgusting but the other option was schnapps and that was worse. Besides, after the first pint, John didn’t figure he would notice the taste. 

“So...we figure the factories up north, yeah?” Joe asked. 

“Have to be.” John nodded. “The german’s were all about finding the most efficient...cost effective...way to get rid of their unwanteds. They were regularly experimenting with chemicals and distribution methods. Bullets were quickly deemed a waste of material. Fertilizer plants have all the right set up to produce the necessary chemicals and likely have tons of space for the bodies after. We go north tomorrow, we can see what the locals have to say about any weird smells or truck loads of strangers coming and going.” 

“John...once we find this place…” 

“Take pictures. You do your writing magic and then…” John spread his hands apart. “Blow it up?” 

Joe nodded to that and they drank.

“I’ve been thinking, I don’t want to hang on to my notes or that film any longer than we have to. We need to establish a way to get all this to London. “

“Have you got someone you can trust there?” John asked. 

Joe thought about his producer, Rogers. After he’d made the decision against returning to the states his relationship with Chris had strengthened. They’d both shared their determination to stay in London and report til the war was over. If there was anyone he could hold accountable it would be Chris. “At the station, yeah.” 

“Alright..” John sighed and lit a cigarette before passing the lighter to Joe. “I made some contacts in Belgium. No telling if they’re still alive, but we can go looking for them after we’ve finished here. It was one of their number that got the lot of us to England.” 

“And you trust him.” 

John smirked and the smoke puffed out of his mouth with the soft laugh. “Until a year ago the only person I trusted was me...and even I was a dodgy blighter.” 

“You’re saying you’re not now..” 

“Ha ha.” 

John looked at the invitation. It was in German. Contrary to his ability to speak and understand the language, he’d had to learn how to read it because of the breadth of the spells he’d used over the years. At the very least, he could phonetically sound it out without knowing the actual meaning of the words or the right inflection.

“I do believe that says “black tie”.” 

“I don’t have a black tie.” Joe responded, his eyes trailing over the busy pub. 

“Me neither.” 

“All we have is British pounds.” Joe said. 

“Which we stole off of a poor Brit whom we captured. We’re good and loyal German boys, Joseph. We can do no wrong.” 

To John’s astonishment, the lie not only worked, but in their favor. Thanks to the previous economic depression the nation had barely crawled out of, the British pound held more value than the Deutch mark. They exchanged 100 pounds and were able to buy suits appropriate to the occasion for both of them as well as an impressive bottle of champagne that had black market practically written across the label. 

They arrived at the building in downtown Welmer, fashionably late by about five minutes, and were greeted by the commanding officer’s wife, a woman who introduced herself as Getrude Steiner. John and Joe snapped their heels together and gave stiff-backed bows, before Joe smirked and kissed her gloved hand. She blushed and giggled and led them through the long narrow house. 

Other SS men, Luftwaffe and at least one Panzer commander stood around the table with cigars and drinks in hand. They were introduced around and asked what they wanted to drink before John produced the bottle of champagne. Their reputation rose ever higher as the hostess took the bottle to the kitchen and ordered drinks from the staff for the guests of honor. 

Wilhelm Steiner was a wafer thin man. He was old, white haired, but his skin was so tight to his bones that he barely had a wrinkle on his face. 

The group toasted to the Fuhrer and sat for the first course, John and Joe sitting either side of the host. 

“Not only did you appear in our city overnight, but you were very quickly the talk of every feminine tongue in our circles. Are you twins?” Steiner asked.

John smirked into his soup but Joe nodded. “I’m the older, by two minutes.” 

“Then your mother was blessed with fine sons. It is curious that one of you is blonde.” 

Joe let a still smile rest on his face and thought about his response before he said, “I take after my mother. She’s Prussian.” 

The word was the magic solution to the confusion and every one of the other men at the table rocked back in their seats, commenting about their own views of the Prussian state and the many heroes of Germany’s past that had come from there. 

They were three courses in, when the talk turned to business. Steiner wanted to know why delegates of the propaganda office had been sent so far east and John took over. He spun a tale about films they were scouting for, looking to bring attention to the good that the Panzers and Luftwaffe were doing in the east. 

“We’ve heard about the work you’ve done routing the enemy out of their holes and running them down. Keeping the skies clear for our boys, paving the way towards London. The Fuhrer wants to make sure that all who serve the Fatherland are given proper praise, from commanders such as yourself to, housewives..” John said, gesturing to Gertrude. “School children, serving staff. We were hoping to see the factories while we were here. Get some photographs and a brief interview from the perspective of the working men and women keeping Germany in good supply of….fertilizer.” 

There were some uncomfortable chuckles around the table, but Steiner seemed more than happy to humor them. “Of course. I can arrange to have you taken there. The young man who brought you my invitation is an excellent driver.” 

“We’d be obliged.” 

Another course was served and they began to talk about America and it’s hesitance to engage in the war. 

“Just another conquest yet to be taken.” Said one of the Panzer division officers, arrogantly. The others chuckled derisively at him. 

“I’m surprised there are any Americans left in Europe. Seems a month ago most of them were boarding ships and heading West.” Gertrude offered, primly. 

John glanced to Joe. 

“Only the foolish ones remain, I assure you.” Joe said, and John smirked. 

The final course before dessert was served and John could feel the pang in his belly. When he looked up he knew that Joe had felt it too. John sat back with his glass and was able to slip his pill into the tumbler. He swirled it around at table level, watching as Joe did the same. They both drank, but the problem remained that they had to speak the incantation. Words written in Hebrew, a language that neither of them dared speak at the table. 

Joe suddenly made a show of checking his watch and then stood abruptly. “My sincerest apologies to my host. I’ve completely forgotten that we were to have checked in with Berlin. Would you be gracious enough to allow my brother and I the use of your phone?” 

“English!” Wilhelm said, his voice heavily accented but his words clear. He seemed delighted at the sudden twist. “You are also actors and performers!” He crowed, laughing. The others around the table clearly only understood some of what Steiner had said, and there was a mix of laughter and confusion. “Natürlich, ist das Telefon im Flur.” 

John and Joe stood quickly, giving hasty bows to their host before they went in the direction the man had pointed. John passed the American in the hallway and led the way up a flight of stairs to a darkened, quiet lavatory. In hushed voices they spoke the Hebrew incantation and both felt the burn in their stomachs. 

“That was bloody close.” John murmured then turned to the mirror and shook his head at himself. 

“That’s the kind of mistake that will get a man killed.” Joe said, his voice even softer than John’s. 

“We should probably make that phone call.” John said, then lead the way back out into the hallway, and straight into the body of a maid. She was staring at them as they left the lav, her eyes narrowed, as if she might have heard them. 

“You...you were speaking Hebrew.” She whispered. She had to have been in her seventies, her hair snow white under the maid’s cap. John wouldn’t have expected a woman of her age to be capable of sneaking up on them like that, or hearing them through the lav door. 

Joe looked to John who gave the maid a patronizing smile. “Spying on the guests, miss?” 

Unfortunately the comment did nothing to dissuade her. If anything her face brightened and she looked ready to cry. John realized his mistake a second later. The Babel Root would translate what was spoken into the first language of the hearer. In their case, the maid undoubtedly heard Hebrew or Yiddish. 

“I knew...I knew you boys could not be Germans. I knew it.” She cried, her voice a mouse’s squeak. 

“You’ve got the wrong idea-” 

“Abba be praised!” The maid cried, this time loud enough to be heard. “You’ve come to deliver us!” 

Joe grabbed John’s arm and jerked him towards the stairs and they descended, the maid following behind them, continuing to bellow Hebrew prayers of rejoicing at them. John wanted to befriend the woman. He wanted her to calm down so that they could give her some kind of explanation that would keep her as an ally, but shut her up. Joe was panicking, and thinking like the performer that he was. 

As soon as they had entered the dining room Joe turned and shouted, “Shut up, you stupid woman!” 

Gertrude stood, paling, and Wilhelm rose slowly to his feet, eyes darting to the faces of each of the officers at his dinner table. The others were rising as well, some of them clearly on guard. The maid continued to wail, and even began singing, rocking back and forth. 

Gertrude muttered the word ‘mother’ under her breath and went to the woman, guiding her back out of the room. From the looks on the faces of the others, the word had been spoken in Hebrew. The single word hadn’t been the cause for the alarm, however. The maid’s prayers had. 

“Herr Steiner, it would be prudent for you to explain this.” The Panzer commander demanded, even as Wilhelm was moving his mouth up and down, no sound coming out. He shot panicked glances to Joe and John. 

“Please, let us...retire to the study.” He tried.

The Panzer officer wanted none of it and ordered his second in command to take custody of “that woman”. 

“Please...no, she is unwell. We’ve kept her only out of compassion. She means no harm and can do nothing to hurt anyone.” Wilhelm begged. 

“Frau Steiner as well, Hans. Bring them to my car.” The commander, Schultz, barked, then snapped a salute and bow at the others at the table and marched out of the house. 

“Who is she, Wilhelm?” One of the Luftwaffe officers asked. His voice soft enough to tell John that they were friends, and not just colleagues. 

Wilhelm suddenly looked like he’d taken poison. “She...is my wife’s mother.” 

“Is she a jew?” 

Wilhelm didn’t respond, but his face spoke volumes. 

“My god.” One of the other men at the table swore under his breath. “You’ve kept her here...and now the propaganda men have seen her.” 

“We’ve also seen an officer acting entirely out of his jurisprudence.” Joe snapped out, flying by the seat of his costly pants. “Johann, you and I know that a Panzer commander hardly has the authority to arrest a subversive and possible spy. Go and retrieve that woman.” 

John stepped away without a word, a smile threatening to split his face once his back was turned. 

Wilhelm stared at Joe, confused, terrified, resigned. 

“We will see that the woman is...cared for.” Joe said, grasping desperately for the right words, and praying that no one would call his bluff. “It is obvious that she's not well. She should be examined by a doctor. If you would be so good as to call us a cab.” 

“No...please. I have shamed my household and my country with my subterfuge. Allow me to drive you. Please.” Wilhelm stated, his back stiffening. His voice was begging but his face was firm and strong. 

“Very well.” Joe said, turning the sigh of relief that was threatening to leave him into resignation. “I’m...sorry that this evening has ended on a dour note.” He said. “I am most regretful that the champagne will remain untasted.” The men still around the table gave him pained, sympathetic smiles. Joe met Steiner’s eyes. “I’ll meet you outside.” 

Joe turned even as Wilhelm gathered his manners and invited his guests to gather their belongings. 

The American stepped onto the front stoop and watched the first flakes of a snow storm starting to fall. He was trembling, his pulse was racing, and he could feel an invisible hand etching a target into his back. Below him, at street level Gertrude and her mother were clinging to one another, Gertrude wailing in terror. Her mother was gleeful, still, telling her daughter that all was well and she shouldn’t weep. The redeemer had come. 

John was facing off with Schultz and his second, Hans. The latter looked like he’d been properly chastised but Schultz was young and arrogant. He’d probably seen his capture of the Jewess as a means of moving up in rank. He didn’t like his golden goose being snatched from his grip. It took John threatening a reassignment to Russia for the man to turn tail and run, though he did it with a stiff neck and his dignity tucked between his legs. 

When John was close enough, his voice came out sounding as scared as Joe felt. “What the hell, Joe.” 

“I’ve got an idea. Roll with it.” Joe said, doing his best to sound confident.

Wilhelm joined them moments later and they piled into his car, the women in the back with John, Joe and Wilhelm in the front. Joe started directing Steiner through the maze of streets, heading them north toward the factories. Wilhelm grew more and more nervous behind the wheel and had begun asking them questions about when they were to report next, who they were reporting to.

John followed the logic of the questions and realized why Wilhelm was asking, too late to warn Joe before the older man had pulled a wicked looking pistol. Joe grabbed it, and grabbed the wheel and the two wrestled, the car swerving across the street and through an intersection, before it careened into the side of a building. The crash and the gunshot happened at the same time.


	6. Part II

Chapter 6 

They hadn’t been going more than twenty miles an hour. The fight had pushed Wilhelm’s foot against the gas pedal, however, and John estimated they had been up to 30 or 35 when they hit. Constantine was launched against the back of the front seat, his body turned sideways. The back of his head hit the metal strut between the front and back windows, knocking him out. He came to, minutes after the crash, and forced his eyes open. Across from him, Getrude and her mother were slumped in the seat, groggy, but alive. 

John’s head pounded and he could feel the warm wetness of blood going down his neck, under the collar of his shirt. The food and drink he’d consumed were swimming in his nauseous belly as he dragged himself up, one hand groping for the door handle behind him. 

He found the latch and turned it and the door swung open. He collapsed into the light dusting of snow on the street, ass first. Constantine managed to keep his head from hitting the bricks and groaned, rolling onto his side, then to his hands and knees. He got to his feet and rocked back as the world swam, his hands clutching at his skull, trying to tamp down the marching band. When his triple vision had reduced to double, he stumbled to the front passenger side door and pulled it open, catching Joe as he slipped out of the car. 

The American reporter had a gash on the front of his head and his right wrist was already bruising and swelling. There was a tear in the left side of his coat, and John’s fingers found blood there. He tore through the jacket and shirt and found a groove cut into the American’s side by the bullet. John sat back a little, closing his eyes tightly against the pain, wiping the visions of being trapped in 1940 Germany on his own out of his head.

As he was propping Joe up against the side of the car, the reporter moaned, his hands, arms and legs jerking to life. His eyes opened wide in response to the sudden pain in his head and John winced sympathetically. 

“Yeah...that’s gonna sting for a while yet, mate.” He said softly, keeping Joe’s head relatively still until the man’s eyes had managed to focus. 

“That was a terrible idea…” Joe said breathlessly, then groaned and put his left hand to his side. He looked to the blood and gave a frustrated sigh. 

“I’m going to remember you said that.” John said before he pushed up on his knees. His hand darted into the car and he grabbed the gun out of the passenger side footwell, sticking it in the back of his pants before he got back to his feet and rounded the car. He had to lean on the sides and boot to get there, but he made it to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. 

Wilhelm was awake, his nose broken and gushing blood down his front. 

John sighed. “In future, Willy, you might get to know the people you’re trying to kill, before you kill them.” He snapped, then stepped back, edging around the open door and leaning his ass against the car, fighting the hurricane in his head. He heard Joe’s shoes scraping on the asphalt and turned to see his head appear above the bonnet. The American was having just as much trouble staying upright as John was. 

Joe’s head hung, his chin nearly touching his chest, his left arm bracing the rest of his body against the hood of the car. “What the hell are we gonna do now?” He asked, eyes pressed tightly shut against the merry-go-round. 

“I’m a firm believer in passing out.” John suggested, his hand going to the back of his head where he could feel the raised edges of the gash, and a bump forming around it. “We can’t very well take this lot to the local emergency room.” 

“Emergency…?” 

“Triage.” John translated then straightened and let his left hand guide him towards the back seat. He checked the pulses of both the women slumped there and watched their chests rise and fall with steady breaths. 

“John...the engine is still running.” Joe hissed, his fingertips exploring the gash on his forehead. “We could probably drive the car out of here.” 

“I don’t drive, mate.” John admitted and rested his forehead against the blessed cool of the top of the car. 

“Well...then...I volunteer.” Joe said, then cried out when he tried to push away from the car with his right hand. “Or not.” 

“Broken?” John asked. 

“Likely.” 

“Bloody hell.” John shut the rear passenger door and reached into the front to shove Wilhelm to the side. The man moved, grudgingly, still mostly out of it. “No time like the present to learn.” 

Joe’s face appeared on the other side of Steiner, just shy of terrified. “To learn?” 

“It...it’ll be fine. Get in.” John said. 

When Joe didn’t respond right away John looked up to see that the American was actually considering staying on the street. 

“I’ll drive.” 

“You can’t. Your arm’s a bloody mess.” 

“I’ll manage.” Joe insisted and John crowded Wilhelm against the passenger door as Joe shut the car up and made his way to the driver’s side. 

“Feel like you don’t trust me…” John groused. 

Joe snorted and John looked over to see a familiar smirk on his face. The smirk disappeared the first time Joe had to manipulate the gear shift, but he managed it. “Where to?” 

“Back to Willy’s house, I think. No one there but the staff. Maybe we can talk some sense into our host before he tries to kill us again.” 

Joe worked the wheel and the gear shift, backing the car off the sidewalk and onto the street. The front end was smashed and the front axle clearly damaged, but the car still drove. Joe kept their speed down, both to avoid another crash and to limit the amount of shifting he had to do. 

When Steiner started to mutter, then make coherent sentences, John slapped his cheeks lightly to bring him all the way around. It took a moment for realization to reach him, and when it did the older man grew very still. 

“What...what will you do with us?” He asked, turning his head to look at his wife and mother-in-law, concern and fear evident in his eyes. 

“Nothing...if you’ll give us a place to stay for the night, and hear us out.” John said, waiting for Wilhelm to meet his eyes. He watched disbelief and shock turn into hope. “We’re not with the propaganda office, we’re not German either. Give us time to explain, help us get patched up. We’ll do what we can to get you and your family out of danger.” 

Wilhelm couldn’t speak. Tears that had been cascading through the blood on his face, likely the result of the pain a broken nose caused, were now renewed in earnest. He simply nodded, quiet the rest of the way back to his home. 

Joe parked the car behind the house, following a small driveway into the back garden. Wilhelm and John helped the two ladies through the back door and into the spacious sitting room. Wilhelm moved to stoke the coals in the fireplace, adding more fuel before he turned on a few lamps. 

“There is no one here in the evenings. The cook was hired.” He explained, distracted. “I...I’m...what...can I do?” The old man finally managed. 

“Any first aid supplies? Whiskey, bandages?” John asked, his face tight with pain. 

“Yes...of course...I can…” 

By then Gertrude had come around to herself and she pushed herself to unsteady feet, her hand dangling where she had used it to push up off the settee. She stood that way for a moment, making sure of her balance before she moved carefully to her husband and put her hands on his shoulders. 

“Sit, my love. I’ll see to it.” 

“Darling...these men-”

“I heard them in the car. I know.” She said, her eyes meeting her husband’s. Both still looked terrified, like they were preparing to leap off a cliff together. Joe rose and quietly offered to go with Gertrude and after she gave him a hesitant glance she took the hand he held out, leaning against Joe as they disappeared into the rest of the house. 

Wilhelm sat on the settee where his wife had been and gingerly began to loosen his mother-in-law’s collar, guiding her down so that she could lay on the cushions. He helped her lift her feet onto the settee, removing her shoes. 

“They are good boys. They are Jews, my son.” The old woman said, a wrinkled hand gliding down Wilhelm’s jaw. Steiner gave his mother-in-law a tortured smile and shushed her, telling her to rest. She patted his hand and closed her eyes, her breath evening out. Wilhelm pulled a blanket from the back of an armchair and laid it over the older woman. 

“She has dementia. We were considering putting her into care when the first of the Fuhrer’s laws against the Jews was released.” Wilhelm said, still poised on the settee, staring at the old woman’s face. “If we had reported her, my wife’s heritage would have been known...our childrens’...the only way was to hide her. Keep her a secret.” Wilhelm turned to face John, his eyes fierce. “I have never regretted that decision.” 

John sat himself down in another of the three arm chairs in the room and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees to keep the blood on the back of his head from marring the furniture. His forehead went into his hands and he rested it there, barely able to think past the pounding in his skull. 

Wilhelm rose from the settee and went to a small cabinet under one of the windows that faced the back garden. He opened the top, swinging the thin piece of wood out of the way on its hinges, revealing a small bar underneath. Steiner poured four glasses, lining them up on the bartop with exaggerated care before he stoppered the decanter and closed the hinged door. 

Everything in its place, John thought, watching the man. He reminded John of the manager of the Halcyon. Quiet, careful, measured. The sort of person you found it hard to dislike. 

Gary Green..god, the name alone felt like it came from ancient history. He had once asked John who could hold a grudge against the warlock, who could want him dead? John wondered the same thing about Wilhelm as the man brought him the tumbler of schnapps. 

The fumes of the drink alone were enough to turn John’s stomach and he moaned softly, setting the glass on the floor by his chair, and settling his head in his hands again. Wilhelm moved away from him, and John heard the poker from the fireplace set clanging against the metal grating. For a second he thought Steiner might have been trying to kill him again. 

When he raised his head, he watched the older man poke at the coals, spreading them out and adding another shovel full. 

“Joe and I...we’re war correspondents.” John said, figuring that simplifying the situation was a better bet than trying to convince Steiner that he was a warlock from the future. “We’ve heard rumors of what Hitler is doing to the Jews and the gypsies and the blacks. We came here to get evidence. Proof that we could take back to the allies. To show them the war behind the war.” 

Wilhelm had produced a kerchief from his jacket, dipped it in the schnapps and had begun wiping the blood from his face, using the mirror over the fireplace. His ablutions had slowed to a halt as John spoke and Wilhelm’s hands came to rest on the mantle. The older man stood staring at the crumbled, blood stained cloth in his hand. 

“I...had forgotten there was a world outside my own.” He said, his voice quaking with the realization. “That...Hitler only commands a part of the world...and not all of it. Your department...well...the department that Johann Schmidt represented,” Steiner said, giving half a smile before he continued, “has convinced everyone in this country that we are the last of God’s chosen people. We are the Aryian race. The most powerful, most beautiful, most worthy beings on the planet and this is...not a war we are fighting. We are merely reclaiming our birthright.” 

Wilhelm finished cleaning the blood from his face. His hands moved with swift efficiency, as if he could no longer feel the swelling and pain in his nose. “Hitler is our glorious leader, our savior, a father figure here to encourage us to fulfill our potential as a nation. He will purify the Fatherland, and the nations we conquer.” Wilhelm turned to face him. “And we will repopulate the world.” 

“There aren’t many nations that would turn down a pitch like that.” John said. 

“No..perhaps not. Germany needed to hear it. After America, England, France and Italy made us the culprits of the Great War, starved our people, shrank our borders. It was as if we no longer had an identity. We weren’t a people anymore, but a blight between Belgium and Poland.” 

John’s gaze lowered from Steiner’s face to the unraveling, well loved rug on the floor before the fireplace. ‘As if we no longer had an identity.’ If it was what Germans had believed, it was what Hitler had believed. No wonder he had striven to strip the identities from an entire race of people. Removing their wealth, their freedoms, their religious icons and finally taking their lives. He was punishing them for what the world had done to his country; looking for a scapegoat to pay for a war that had been unlike anything they’d ever seen before. 

Suddenly John was aching for a smoke, and he patted at his pockets. Wilhelm watched him and produced a gold cigarette case, opening it and offering one to John before he held out the slim lighter that went with it. John dragged in a deep breath and nearly leaned back into the arm chair, forgetting about the blood drying on his neck and down his spine. 

Joe’s voice coming down the hallway jerked him awake and John stood, reaching his hands out to take some of the supplies from the American. As soon as his arms were empty, Joe leaned against the chair John was in, his face blanching. He was covered in sweat and trembling and John stood, guiding the American down. 

“The arm?” He asked. 

“Yeah…” Joe said. O’Hara’s sleeve was tight, the cuff cutting off circulation to his hand. 

John looked to Wilhelm. “Do you have scissors...a knife? We’ll need a splint, something to stabilize it.” 

The german turned to the small desk that sat behind the settee and handed a letter opener to John before disappearing out the back door. Constantine helped Joe out of the jacket and removed the cufflink from his right wrist. He barely had room enough to slip the letter opener between Joe’s swelling skin and the cloth, pulled tight around his arm. 

The redness began at Joe’s wrist and travelled all the way up to his elbow. There was a growing bruise along the radius side of his arm, and his thumb was swelling, even as color started to return to the rest of his hand. 

“Please..” Gertrude said behind him and John shifted so that he could look to her without having to turn his head too far. “I was a nurse in the Great War...please.” She said again. 

John moved.

“Those sheets. They should be torn into strips, soaked in cold water. We must reduce the swelling.” Gertrude told him and John, finally given a task that he didn’t have to think about, quickly moved into the kitchen to find a pot and fill it with water. He was gone only minutes but by the time he returned Wilhelm was back with a pair of ice skates. He removed the curved piece of wood that protected the blades of the skates and used a small knife to deepen the groove in the wood, splitting it in half. He produced a sanding stone from his pocket and went to work, smoothing the newly exposed wood, turning the sanding stone as he worked with confident fingers. 

Gertrude and John worked together to wrap Joe’s arm loosely in the wet strips, Gertrude gently guiding the American’s arm until it hung over the pot where it could drip without creating a mess. She then turned her attention to the gash on Joe’s head, using alcohol to clean it before wrapping bandages over it. 

She went to her husband next, using the same water and more sheets to bathe his face and treat the swelling of his nose. John and Joe watched them, the familiarity of husband and wife communicating through touch and looks and murmurs. For a brief time they were in their own world and neither man felt the need to pull them away from it. 

When John moved to unwrap the strips and soak them again Joe hissed and glared at each bump or nudge. “I’ve broken more bones in my life with you around-” The rest was cut off and John chuckled. 

“I’m bad luck, mate. Probably should have warned you about that.” 

“I’m up to here with warnings…” Joe said, his eyes closing, exhausted. “Gertrude told me about Joanna, her mother. She’s also got a sister in the south. Two grown children in Berlin. A granddaughter and two grandsons. All of them could feel the backlash if word gets out about their lineage.” 

John nodded, focused on the cold compress, choking back the words Ava had spoken to him before he left the Waverider. ‘We can’t save everyone.’ 

“We’ll figure it out.” He said, instead. He finished wrapping Joe’s arm, then dipped a corner of one of the remaining strips in the water and touched it to the tender lump on the back of his own head. It came away smeared with blood, but John could tell it had since stopped bleeding. The warlock sat by Joe’s chair, knees drawn up so that he could rest one arm on them, while the other pressed the cold cloth to his head. He let his head droop and closed his eyes, exhausted by the pain. 

He heard a soft snore a minute later and glanced up. Joe’s head had slipped to the side and he was out, his face slack, but with better color in it. John would have happily laid back on the hardwood floor and taken a nap right there but he held off. Despite the fact that the two parties had to rely on one another to survive, had to trust one another to keep their secrets, John knew that he and the American were still a threat to the germans. And that made the germans still a threat to them. 

He caught the scent of Gertrude’s perfume before he heard her settle on her knees behind him. Her fingers took the compress from his hands and she parted his hair, finding the wound. She cleaned it, as she had with Joe, careful not to break the wound open. She dabbed at the back of John’s head and down his neck, clearing the blood away. 

“The wound should breathe. To avoid infection.” She said softly. 

John shifted, turning 90 degrees so that he could look at her. “What about you?” 

Gertrude gave him a tight smile. “I am alright.” She said, softly. “But your brother...his arm needs to be set before too much longer. It will be...painful. He should drink something.” 

John winced but nodded. “Listen...I want you to know that you can trust us. We only came here to keep our cover goin’. Not to go after your mum.” 

Again Gertrude tried a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Wilhelm and I knew there would come a day when we could not hide her any longer. We feared it, but we were determined to live our lives as normal..for our children. Perhaps she was right.” 

“About what?” 

“She called you the Messiah...savior. You saved our lives, you and your brother.” 

“For now...anyway.” John said. 

“Let us take care of Joseph. Then you can use the room the children slept in.” 

Despite the lack of equipment Gertrude, Wilhelm and John managed to make quick work of waking Joe, getting him drunk, and setting the bone in his arm. They wrapped the break with several layers of cloth and used the skate guards to stabilize it. The greatest challenge became keeping Joe awake and on his feet for the treacherous journey up the stairs. The once nursery now served as a guest room. There were two twin beds, made up with muted bedspreads. The rest of the room was a soft blue color and any vestige of it’s previous purpose had been corralled in one corner along with a crib covered by a sheet. 

“Our youngest grandchild is two months old. Our children plan to visit for Christmas.” Gertrude explained, her fingertips resting lightly on the crib before she turned to the two men. 

John got Joe settled on the bed, tugging his shoes off, loosening the tie. Joe was already out by the time John lay a blanket over him. As John slumped onto the other bed Gertrude asked if they needed anything else. 

“A couple of nurses and some powerful drugs would be nice,” John said, then gave her a smile. “You’ve been more than kind, thank you.” 

Getrude bid him goodnight softly then left the room. John stared at the door for a long time, still not able to shake the feeling that they couldn’t trust the couple fully. He desperately wanted to believe that his paranoia was unfounded and his body was demanding he lie down and sleep. John leaned back onto the bed, felt painful pressure against his skull and turned onto his side. He closed his eyes and spoke a few words in Paiute, performing a listening spell. His ears popped and suddenly he could hear the hushed voices of the Steiner’s below. 

“You work for the SS, Wilhelm. You know the tricks, the lies they play, even against their own people.” 

“Love, they are not Gestapo. They don’t act like them. Don’t speak like them. They could have called for reinforcements, or driven our car to their headquarters. Instead they brought us here, asked for our help. When was the last time you remember a Gestapo officer asking for anything?” 

Getrude sighed. “What if they think we have something else to hide? What if they think we are part of the underground?” 

“Are we?” Wilhelm asked, and John could hear the humor in his voice. “Darling, these men, whoever they really are, can not possibly be as dangerous as our other options.” 

“We could go. Put mother in the car, pack some bags. We could be in Berlin by morning.” 

“The car wouldn’t take us that far, and it would attract too much attention.” Wilhelm told her, remaining patient. 

“We could take the train, first thing in the morning.” 

“Suppose these men are Gestapo. Suppose we leave them here, disappear. What would their first response be? To call their headquarters, release our descriptions. Our papers would be useless and we would be caught.” 

“And if they aren’t Gestapo.” 

Wilhelm chuckled as he spoke, “Then why are we running? Dearest, you have every reason to be suspicious. I know what happened to your father, as well as you do. We can ask them questions in the morning, satisfy ourselves if we have to. But running is foolhardy. We can’t afford to be anymore wreckless than I have already been.” 

The two were silent for a moment and John started to fall asleep to the faint crackle of the fire below him. 

“You were not wreckless. You were...courageous.” Gertrude said, and there was a coyness to her tone. 

John whispered the words to end the spell and fell asleep in an instant.


	7. Part II

Chapter 7

“To my dear America, and to any Ally currently engaged in this conflict. I can’t reveal my name, or my location, but most of you will know who I am by the time you’ve heard this. I expect it’s likely that my words will be broadcast posthumously. I can think of no greater epitaph. 

While in London I came to know a gentleman, a brother of sorts, serving at the guns in the city. This extraordinary man, and those with him, were there the night I first met a bomb face to face. I was saved, nursed back to health, and returned to my pen and pad a wiser man. My new friend had knowledge to share, information about nightmares that were coming to life in Germany, Poland, Belgium. He predicted that soon these atrocities would spread to France, perhaps even England. I feared for you, America. So I determined to go into the war zone and see it for myself. To get to the truth, wherever it lay.

What follows these words is not for the weak of heart. Before this I have concentrated on acts of bravery, kindness, goodness and compassion. Now, I will speak of terror, torture, racism and intolerance. I won’t be pulling my punches, America, because it’s important that you know..that the world knows..just what has been happening behind enemy lines. As you listen, dear friends, I encourage you to imagine that these wretched acts are happening to your neighbors. Your friends. Your loved ones. Imagine, if you can, these treachories taking place in your front lawns, your parks, your cities. Then tell me, America, what would you do to change it?”

***

“Euthanasia…” Wilhelm spoke the word, turning the thin lighter in his fingers, around and around. 

Gertrude’s face had fallen and she sat flushed in her seat at the breakfast table. 

John stayed as he was, elbows on the table, pressed forward. 

“A polite word for murder.” Wilhelm said, mostly to himself before he nodded. “Yes...I know where they were taken. There is a place to the west of here. An old strip mine that has been dead for some time. There is a pit, a dry hole where…” The older man glanced to his wife. 

Gertrude was still as stone, staring intently at a chip in the china plate before her, emotionless. 

“Why do you want to go there?” 

“Proof.” John said, letting the intensity leave his voice, if only to spare Gertrude. “We have a camera and film. The more evidence we can provide for the allies the better.” He said. 

It was morning. The snow had continued to fall over night and a blanket lay over the back garden, obscuring the sins of the night before. Gertrude had been the first to rise and made coffee and biscuits for them. She set dried strawberries on the table as well and apologised that they had no fresh fruit. They had eaten slowly, talking about nothing until Wilhelm had asked what John’s plan was. John had chosen against taking some of the Babel Root and Wilhelm had seemed grateful for the chance to practice his English. 

“Once we have that proof, we can see about getting you and your family out of Germany.” 

Gertrude came to life again, her eyes widening as she looked to her husband. 

“Our children are in Berlin. Gertrude’s sister lives near the Austrian border. It would take time to prepare, to get the word to the others.” 

“I know some people, good people. We worked together to get Jews out of Belgium. If we can track them down, and if you can provide them with..support.” John winced a little. “They’d have the means to get you out of the country, as soon as you're ready.” 

“What will you and Joseph do?” Getrude asked. 

“What we’ve been doing. Taking pictures, talking to the locals. Getting the word out.” 

“Did you mean to draw attention to yourself?” Wilhelm asked. 

John flashed a confused look towards him. 

“As soon as you came into town you drew the attention of the Hitler youth. They are usually encouraged to watch the roads in and out of town when they are not at school or other activities. They report all that they see to their parents and that is, in turn, reported to whatever military presence is nearby.”

“It hasn’t worked in our favor, no.” John said after fiddling with the cigarette in his hands. 

“Your story, no matter how impressive your papers, is unwise.” Wilhelm said. His voice was kindly, like a father admonishing an adult son. “The propaganda ministry has been focused on dissuading neutral countries from engaging in the war. And on earning new allies. They wouldn’t be bothered with workers and housewives.” 

John raised a brow at that but didn’t respond. 

“If you wanted to go completely unnoticed, but still have reason to go door to door, you should say you are from the census bureau. Or sanitation. Their papers are simple to forge and no one will question your presence.” 

“Sanitation..” John said. “Like a bin man?” 

Wilhelm shrugged, his eyes wandering toward his wife. “A measure of pride in one’s city comes from certain regulations in orderliness. The sanitation workers have taken on a secondary roll, along with the census men.” 

“Alright, what would a sanitation man look like?” 

“You looked the part while you were in town. You need only a pair of work gloves in your back pocket. It would not be unlike the government to put one brother in one bureau and the other elsewhere. Both occupations would open doors for you.” 

“What about the camera?” 

“The census requires that all German citizens be photographed, their likenesses compared to the Prüfung Mischling. The uh...Jew test. You would have every reason to carry the camera with you, and use it on the streets if need be.” 

John nodded, a thought occurred to him and he winced, deciding against it. 

Wilhelm had seen it though and he pushed. “You have..more questions?” 

John studied them both before he asked, “Out of curiosity, do the two of you pass?” 

“We were never tested.” Gertrude spoke. “Wilhelm has impeccable pedigree. It would have been an affront, a social embarrassment to have been asked.” 

“Unless doubt is cast on us.” Wilhelm said, his hand reaching out to grasp his wife’s. “The Gestapo needs only a rumor to descend on anyone it deems unworthy.” 

“Last night's guests...how likely are they to be the source of such a rumor.” 

Gertrude and Wilhelm met each other’s eyes, and John could almost hear the exchange between them. 

“Fear can be transformative. For the bad as much as the good.” Wilhelm said. “I have served with all but the men from the panzer division for much of my life. But if their families or lives were threatened. I..I could not vouch for any of them. They do not risk what we do.” 

The table fell quiet and John reached for the last of his coffee. It was thin, weak and there had been no sugar for it. Still, coffee was the first thing he and Joe had run out of. 

“Were you afraid...last night?” Gertrude asked, her voice hesitant. Her eyes dancing across the table top, reluctant to meet John’s. 

“Before or after you tried to kill us?” John asked, then smiled wanly. “Yes...I was afraid...mostly of having to carry on without Joe.” 

Gertrude looked to her husband again and after a moment she gave him a faint nod. 

“We will do everything in our power to help you and your brother. Whatever we can spare for your friends in Belgium, we will happily give.” 

That afternoon John and Wilhelm went out to the mine. Wilhelm risked unwanted attention by ordering the lone guard posted at the gate to let them through, but the guard seemed bored or tired and barely blinked. 

They followed the truck tracks, only visible as deep grooves in the snow, along a winding path through tall mounds of gravel and granite. John imagined being in the back of a transport truck, standing with family, friends, neighbors. Feeling the truck rock back and forth as it hit bumps, turned corners, and seeing the road disappear out the back flap, with no way of knowing where they were headed. 

They stopped by the pit, everything still covered in white. The snow would be a problem. It was covering all the evidence John had come there to see. He told Wilhelm to stay in the car and climbed to the edge of the pit. He focused his mind, reached out to the magic of the place and felt it’s cold, dark, horrible hand glide across his own. He snapped his mind closed behind it’s protective barriers and shuddered. 

He hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t been thinking. He looked down into the pit. The snow was covering countless bodies, if Wilhelm’s reports were true. Countless spirits, snuffed out in an instant, at the height of a terrifying moment...there’d be a cesspool of ghosts down there. If what he wanted was first hand accounts of the deaths of everyone of those men and women, he would get it in spades. 

But the rest of the world around him wouldn’t have understood it. They wouldn’t have given credence to it. In the back of his mind John realized that if he did get separated from Joe...or if Joe died, he could set up shop as an underground medium…

John spoke fire into his hands and dropped it gently into the pit, letting it hover over the bodies and grow, melting the snow. He took his pictures. He’d seen horrors a plenty in his life. This was different. This wasn’t at the hands of a demon or a fate. Man had done this. 

John returned to the car and they drove back to Wilhelm’s home quietly. When he had dropped John off, Wilhelm told him that he had to return the car to his office and would be back late that evening. John went into the house to find Joe helping Gertrude to pack the couple’s valuables into hidden places in the bags they were to carry, or in the linings of coats. 

John threw himself into the work, and forgot the rest. A day later, he and Joe were traveling south with new papers, a new cover story, all of their British pounds exchanged for Deutch marks and a little more confidence between them. 

***  
“I met a man and his wife in the war zone. The man was in the military. He was well respected and he and his wife had lived in their home for twenty-five years. They had two children, three grandchildren. They took care of his ailing mother-in-law and were preparing to welcome home their family for Christmas. The trouble was, this man’s wife, his mother-in-law and his children...were all Jews. A single slip has now forced the family into hiding. 

You see in Germany today it’s a crime to have certain features, certain beliefs, certain lineage. Germany is looking to sweep the Jews and the Poles, the queers, the gypsies, the blacks, the Ites, the sick and the infirm. Anyone who doesn't pass a certain test, the Prüfung Mischling, is ordered away from their homes. The greatest of these number are those of Jewish heritage. They have to wear a star on their coats. They’re forced into sections of the city that have been closed off by barbed wire. They’re put under curfews, ordered to give up their businesses, licenses, cars, bicycles. Some of them are shipped off into the woods, ordered to line up in front of wide, shallow pits, and they’re shot in the back. 

Don’t believe me? I’ve seen the pits. I have stood over mass graves populated with children, men, women, infants. Covered with lime and only a thin layer of topsoil. I’ve also seen the camps where some of these ‘unwanteds’ are taken. Where survival depends on your ability to work sometimes up to 18 hours, to walk or stand for four or five hours, and all on a crust of bread and a few spoonfuls of thin soup. 

Are they soldiers, captured by the enemy? Spies, selling secrets to the allies? Have they stolen, cheated, murdered? No. 

These prisoners are only guilty of obediently following laws that a madman wrote to exact vengeance. Informants, resistance fighters and refugees have estimated that one hundred thousand of their kind have already been moved from cities, executed or imprisoned. How big must that number grow, America, before we begin to consider it our problem? How many souls must lay on your conscience before it becomes too heavy to bear? 

For me, the number is already too great.” 

***

Ava checked the timeline a few hours after John had left the Waverider. Gideon said there were no changes, and nothing amiss and Ava returned to her quarters to sleep. When she woke there was a new alarm, a new mission, and Ava gathered the team to get them going...and to explain why John wasn’t with them. 

Zari put on a brave face but her jaw was trembling, and Ava could see that she was hugging herself hard enough to leave bruises. She offered to have Zari QB from the Waverider, and the woman simply nodded. Ava stayed with her and the others went to San Francisco, 1995. 

Ava and Zari talked. They may have had a little too much wine. They cried and screamed and shouted at the man and woman that had left them behind without a word (granted, Sara hadn’t had a choice). 

By the time the others had finished the mission, Ava was certain she had no more tears left in her.

Behrad and Nate had been spending their free time monitoring newspapers, radio and news reels. When they found transcripts for a London broadcast, featuring a barely remembered program, “Behind Enemy Lines” they brought the scripts to Ava. She read through them. There were three broadcasts of the radio feature before it was shut down. 

At the end of the final broadcast this statement had been read, “It is with great regret that I announce to our listeners that the brave men providing the material for this program have been captured by the enemy. They are being held in a POW camp in Germany. Word of their capture and internment was sent to us by the Red Cross this morning. Our prayers and thoughts go out to them.” 

“That’s gotta be them, right?” Nate asked. Ava looked to him, then to Behrad, then to Mona who seemed to support anything in the least bit dramatic. 

“What if it is?” She asked, finally. 

Nate’s mouth was hanging open. “Are you seriously going to leave John Constantine to rot in a POW camp?” 

“We don’t know that he’s rotting. Plenty of soldiers survived those camps, and John has a knack for doing whatever it takes to save his own skin. He went against my orders when he left. It’s his own arrogance that got him into this mess and I refuse to run the Waverider at his mercy.” 

Nate’s mouth opened and closed, but his argument had fizzled in favor of the shock at what was coming out of Ava’s mouth. “He’s part of the team, Ava-” 

“He never wanted to be. Sara had to beg him to join, and he turned her down. He only changed his mind because he had a demon on his ass.” Ava drew a hard breath in through her nose, remembering how it had been before Sara. How to be heartless. “Every move that man has made since he stepped foot on this ship has been self-serving. John Constantine is not a legend.” 

***

They were captured two days before Christmas. They had tried to help a Jewess and her children escape Hartheim, south of the Danube river, after finding them alive and hiding near the euthanasia site. Her oldest son, a boy suffering from Schizophrenia, had broken from the group and alerted the authorities, turning in his family only to be taken into custody himself. 

The Jewess and her children were sent to a concentration camp. Joe and John, showing pristine papers and speaking perfect German, were sent to the Gestapo for questioning. 

They were in a Gestapo-owned warehouse for three hours before the Babel Root wore off. Both men closed their mouths and kept them shut, refusing to speak. They were put into separate cells overnight before they were taken to Berlin. 

To each question they were asked, they would respond with silence. They couldn’t understand the majority of the questions anyway. They were interrogated separately and together. They were given injections of serums, beaten, forced to stand, sit or kneel for hours at a time. When they were left alone John tried everything he could. Every incantation he could remember. Every blessing, every curse. 

After a week and half, both men were shoved into a transport truck, not strong enough even to sit up on their own. They were dumped in a detainment camp, in a barracks with other spies and political prisoners. 

Their barrack was barely twice the size of the truck that had dumped them in the camp. Twenty men shared the space. The first night, John and Joe spent on the floor, curled together for lack of warmth. The following morning apparently someone had told the SS that the Gestapo wanted the two prisoners kept alive. They were taken to the camp office, given blankets, a single red cross package, striped uniforms. They were forced into a delousing shower, their heads shaved clean, then returned to the barrack where the guards beat a cowering man to his knees, so that the two newcomers could have a bed. 

They were left to their own devices for two days. John’s many experiences in prison meshed together in his brain and the old instincts kicked in. There were a few Germans and Poles, who could speak English. They wanted to know who John and Joe were, but both men kept to themselves, speaking in hushed voices. 

“If Ava and the others are looking at all they have to have seen something by now.” John said, his hands quaking, his knees bouncing. 

He figured it was withdrawal from the cigarettes that was making him quake. Or it could have been the fever, the malnutrition, the broken ribs or the hastily relocated shoulder. The patchwork quilt of bruises scattered around his body.

Joe was even worse off, his body bathed with sweat. Both eyes were blackened around a swollen nose and Joe had to painfully clear his nostrils every few minutes in order to breathe. He lay back on the thin, straw mattress, his wrist swollen to twice its size, some of the bruises on his arm so deep that they were black. Or that could have been an infection. 

“If they’re looking…” Joe repeated, emphasizing the first word. John shifted on the bed and Joe hissed, his back arching to escape the pain that even that slight had caused. 

“Yeah well...I didn’t leave on the best of terms, mate.” John said, then closed his eyes tightly against the flood of messages coming from his nervous system. “I could get us out of here. Give me time to think up the right spell, the right time and place.” 

Joe’s face went whiter. His lips tightened and the sweat cascaded down his forehead, soaking through the collar and under the sleeves of his shirt. “Where would we go? We’d be hunted...all the way back to London.” 

John’s eyes settled on the two-by-four that ran under the mattress. Hundreds of hands had carved initials, messages, symbols and numbers into the wood. They had used lighters or hastily made candles, then used water and fingers to force the char on the wood into the grooves. Cementing their names, or their last words, into something that might just stand the test of time. “Maybe we could...dig a tunnel. Or...call up a demon...I could get an angel…” John’s mind wandered, something it had been doing since the first beating. “M-maybe Chas could come by...the cab must be workin’ by now...or Zed...Martin…” 

Joe watched him. The American wished desperately that he could stop the shaking. If John could only sit still, Joe could think past the white hot agony in his arm. John was practically asleep, sitting up right. Joe was tempted to let him sleep, but John shifted, woke himself up, rocking the bed. Joe asked his next question once John’s eyes had uncrossed. “Do you even know where we are?” 

John shifted, pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders and blinked his eyes, desperate to stay awake. He might be able to figure it out. He’d need a handful of dirt, the bark of a tree, a grub or a worm. A medieval knight. No...that...that was a different spell. Moss from a tree in the swamps...or...was it the swamp water. Water from the Jordan river? 

No matter. He’d need twenty minutes to himself inside a solid circle, salt, chalk. He would draw a circle in the dirt that was coating the bloody floor if he had to. But all of those were things that would draw attention, and that was the last thing he wanted in this camp. Besides, the spells would require focus, and at least some energy, and John didn’t have either to give.

In the end it didn’t matter. It seemed their time was up. It might have been one of their fellow prisoners, telling the Kapo that the two newcomers were plotting an escape together. 

It may have simply been that the Gestapo decided the two spies had rested enough. 

Whatever the case, SS guards poured into the room. Most of the other men were pushed back and two bruisers came after Joe. He barely had time to get to his feet before he was taking a billy club in the stomach, then across the back. They beat him viciously until he lay still, then dragged him out of the building. 

The energy John hadn’t been able to find before came to him then, and he got in a few punches before his arms were forced back, and someone grabbed a handful of hair, immobilizing his head. Doberman, the guard who worked closely with the canine units, always walking around with the dog that gave him his nickname, had been the last to enter. He had a look of satisfaction on his face that John didn’t like. Cold blue eyes met Constantine’s, then the big German nodded to the men holding the warlock and John was forced out into the cold January air. 

The sun was hidden behind clouds threatening to snow. The wind had picked up and was rattling between the narrowly placed buildings, whipping at the weak tendrils of smoke coming from each hut. Spirals of dry powder lifted, unfurled and whispered across the ground. John struggled and dragged his feet, fighting as hard as he could until he was knocked over the head with a sap. The slug was enough to take his breath away and he went limp as he was shackled to the post the Bosche liked to use when they were making an example. 

John had seen men whipped here, left out in the cold, hung from their shoulders. He’d seen a man molested by prisoners for hours before he died, hemorrhaging into the snow. Nothing good happened here and John could feel the malignant energy seeping through his skin. 

They took his shoes and socks. He was doused with a bucket of water. Doberman hit him in his stomach until John could no longer support his own weight. As soon as he sagged against the shackles, his shoulder slid out of place. Then he was left alone. 

His body tried valiantly to fight the cold, and John tried willing a fire into his hands, wishing he could conjure it in his veins without spontaneously combusting. He tried to set the pole on fire, managed a small conflagration, then regretted it when the pole, and himself, were doused again. They searched him, expecting to find a lighter or matches. When they couldn't find any, he was given a second beating, a third dousing, and a guard. 

The guard succumbed quickly to a sleeping spell, but the magic was the last John had left and he collapsed. His shoulder ached, his fingers had long ago gone numb, only to come back to life with throbbing pain. He recognized each of the stages of hypothermia from his time in the ice age. Although he'd been dry then, he’d had his trench coat. Socks and boots. And company.

For an hour John watched the gray sky. He screamed for the Waverider to take notice. He cursed Ava, Nate, Behrad, Zari, Mona, Gary, Rory. He cursed Joe for being stalwart and good hearted. He cursed himself for being arrogant and foolhardy. 

The screaming became whispers, tortured by a cough that he knew would turn into pneumonia in an instant. When night fell John’s only saving grace was that the wind disappeared with the sun. His feet were frozen to the ground, but without the wind wicking away his warmth, John could feel a fire burning in his belly. The fire had started to spread when Doberman returned. 

He kicked John’s feet loose from the ground and grinned when John screamed. He tore John’s head away from where it had frozen to the pole. He ripped the shackles open and let John collapse to the ground. Constantine was carried to the joke that passed for an infirmary, and dropped on a cot. A lice ridden blanket was thrown over him. 

John turned his head. Joe was on the cot beside him. His lip had been split and abused so badly that half of his jaw looked swollen. They’d rebroken his wrist. His breath was rattling in his throat like he might have lost a few ribs, too. John wondered if he should let the both of them out of their misery now, or if he would have to wait til the morning to even have the strength. 

What he wouldn’t have given to be in the medchair on the Waverider, Gideon telling him to rest, pumping him full of opioids. It took a few hours for him to start shivering again, but it happened, and the pain that came with it made him think about living again. When he could feel them, John started moving his fingers. The tortured skin was beet red, and the tips of his fingers and toes were darkening to black. John moved his hands, fingers, his good arm, for an hour, getting as much mobility as he could before he pushed himself up in the cot. 

Panting, throbbing with pain, John slid back until his shoulders were supported by the wall and he directed his attention around the room. He spotted the pen that the orderly used to mark down the names of the prisoners who died. He rolled out of his cot, crawled to the table where the pen sat. He bent the tip of the quill until he had a sharp enough edge, spilled the ink in a puddle on the floor, and used it to etch a message in the bare wood. He ran out of ink before he could finish. The skin on the tips of his fingers had begun to crack and peel and bleed and he used his own blood for the rest. 

“The Last Will and Testament of John Constantine.” 

John summoned the energy to produce a small flame. He scorched the words and ink into the wood, barely holding onto the spell long enough to finish. When he was done he could feel his heart beating itself to death in his chest. He collapsed by where he had signed his own name, unable even to pull in a full breath. 

His vision was edged in black, his chest a blossoming bouquet of pain, when the portal opened. Zari, Ava, Mona, Gary, Rory, Nate, Behrad. They poured into the infirmary. Nate and Ava picked John up and dragged him onto the ship. 

John tried to say Joe’s name. He tried to demand they get him...save him. He needn’t have bothered. 

Rory and Gary pulled Joe out of his cot and brought him on board the Waverider and the portal snapped shut. 

John felt his heart slowing, felt the muscle giving up the fight, too long abused to continue beating. He was on a gurney and the lights were flying overhead. Gideon was speaking sweet nothings in his ear. He felt the pinprick of an IV needle, the rush of drugs. He struggled to stay awake but he had little say in the matter. He was unconscious before Gideon even diagnosed him. 

***

America, please understand. These nations haven’t simply capitulated. They did not welcome the Nazis into their homes with open arms. There are those who risk their lives daily, living in squalor, putting everything they have towards the cause of helping their fellow man out of the reach of Hitler’s hate. 

I met some of these men and women. One left her husband after he joined the Nazi party in 1935. He followed her to her parent’s home and attacked all of them. Killing her father, paralyzing her mother. Her husband demanded that she return to him, or he would kill her too. She took a knife from the kitchen and threw herself on it, determined never to return to a man so vile. 

But she did not die. She survived, started a coalition of other survivors, helping mothers and children to leave the country. 

Her husband was killed in the attack on Poland and now she is married to a leader in the resistance. One of very few to have survived as long as he has. This man is not tall, nor handsome. He is not young and strong. He was a clerk in the census office before his job was given to a janitor who was grossly underqualified, but had better pedigree than he. 

This clerk has saved over a thousand lives, organizing safe houses, food, clothing, forged papers, and stolen valuables to a flood of innocents fleeing German-occupied countries. 

Yesterday my brother-in-arms, and I encountered a young family. A mother, three children, one of whom suffers from distressing fits, claims he sees demons tormenting him. When he is restive, he is pleasant, handsome, seemingly plain and ordinary. When the voices come to him, he is like a madman. He likes to quote Herr Hitler. He will mimic his voice and repeat his speeches with relish and authority. He admires Hitler, completely unaware that were Hitler to know of his existence, he would be put to death on the spot. 

As I watch this small family rest tonight, I have to wonder. How many more-

***

They worked in clipped tones, fast hands, focused minds, until both men were stable. Three and half hours for Joe, four for John. Both were unconscious, covered in heated blankets, IVs pumping warmed blood, painkillers and antibiotics into their systems. The heat had been turned up in the infirmary, too and the Legends were sweating heavily by the time Gideon declared both of the men likely to fully recover. 

Zari grabbed a chair, parked it between the two beds and sat, staring at the screen showing a full body x-ray of the warlock. There were more red spots than not. More places where John was broken or hurting, than whole and healthy. Joe was no different. Zari had been crying, sobbing, taking deep stabilizing breaths before sobbing anew. 

The terror of finding someone she loved, tortured to death, rail thin, a shadow of who he had been the night before he left. Historical records had only told them so much about what all had happened. Gideon had speculated the rest. Zari didn’t know how much of John would be left when he woke and she was horrified to find out. Yet she couldn’t leave his side. Her heart ached abominably. What had been a sad story from 7th grade history was now very real, very near, and far too painful to accept. 

She wished she had Rory’s talent. That she could write it all down in the hope that putting the words to paper made sense of it all. She thought about vlogging but...the thought sickened her, physically and she had to stand and pace to keep from vomiting. 

When Ava appeared in the doorway Zari glared at her from the corner she had come to rest in. Ava’s eyes met hers, and Zari read her guilt and judged her anyway. Ava moved to the beds, her back to Zari. She checked on both men, checked unnecessarily on the IV tubes and the blankets, then stood there useless and frozen. 

“You let him leave.” 

“I couldn’t have stopped him, Zari.” 

Zari’s teeth met in a hard grimace and she choked on the scream that was closing her throat. “If we had helped him. If anyone of us had gone with him-” 

Ava shook her head. It was easy to judge based on hindsight. It was Zari’s prerogative to blame Ava for John’s condition and there was nothing Ava could do to justify or defend herself. She had her own reasons for feeling guilt. For knowing she was in part responsible for this. In her mind, John was just as responsible. He had chosen to take the course he did and they all knew the price of war. 

Zari...this Zari...may not have understood that first hand, but Ava did. John did. Nate, Mick, Gary, Mona...Behrad. They understood. They had chosen to deal with their own demons in solitude. Zari had chosen to wallow in self-righteous pity and Ava let her. Zari wasn’t the person she needed to answer to. 

“Go to bed, Zari. Get some rest. I’ll tell you when John wakes up.” Ava said, finally. She waited for the fight. Her shoulders tightened and she expected something to come flying at her. Instead, Zari scrambled to her feet and stormed out of the room. Ava had Gideon turn the lights down, grabbed the chair and continued the vigil.


	8. Part II

Chapter 8

When John woke Ava was there. She was hovering over him, which meant he had to have made a noise. He saw her through a cloud of drugs and pain. He could feel the weight of the blankets on him. The press of bandages around his feet and hands. His shoulder had been replaced, wrapped. There was plastic under his nose but Ava moved it as he came around. John tried to swallow, choked, started coughing. Ava produced a cup with a straw and he drank from it. It burned, cut into his tortured throat like a knife, then soothed it. 

John wanted more and Ava patiently held the cup for him until he was done. She walked away, then came back with more, but John shook his head. 

“How’s the pain?” Ava asked. 

“S’okay.” John whispered. 

Ava nodded. She stood watching him, her eyes taking in details, like she was memorizing him. It took John a moment to realize that her hands were resting on his. The tension between them was taut as a violin string. John felt silly when he asked, “Did’ya like my note?” 

“Oh John…” Ava said, angry, frustrated, her eyes swimming in tears. She turned away to let them fall, dashing them from her cheeks and walking away from the two beds. “You’re a mess...do you realize that?” She asked, turning back but keeping her distance. “Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, you barely weigh a hundred pounds. You’re lucky to still have all your fingers and toes. The bottoms of your feet are hamburger…” Ava’s voice cracked as more tears came. “And you’re cracking a joke.” 

John watched her, not moving anything that he didn’t have to. He was angry, terrified, sobered after she confirmed his fears about his own condition. His heart had started to race and John could feel Gideon responding to it, the warm, welcoming edge of more drugs were creeping through his system. Ava was standing, staring at him, as if waiting for a response, but John was struck with the sudden realization that Ava’s problem wasn’t his to fix. The faces and voices of those that he had helped to save. Those he had pointed towards the resistance. Those whose stories Joe had begun to write. They were his justification. He had nothing to prove, and no case to answer. 

He’d faced death so many times, and returned from the edge, that he’d developed a firm belief in last minute Hail Mary’s. Ava and the others arriving when they did, that was another Hail Mary that confirmed that his job on this plain wasn’t done yet. He still had atoning to do before hell claimed him, and Ava had only been a functional part of that plan. There was no moral dilemma. There was nothing to apologize for. 

John closed his eyes and smiled and he heard Ava huff in frustration. “Get it out, luv.” He said, shifting his hips gently, moving his feet under the blanket, pulling his hands closer to his chest. He turned his head to the side and could feel himself already drifting. 

“What?!” 

“Whatever it is...that you think you’ve done to me...it doesn’t matter. It won’t change who I am, or what I do next. It won’t change...who you are to me. It hasn’t killed me...and it won’t save me...so...get it out.” John was exhausted by the time he was done, and the words were starting to drift with his consciousness, but he was pretty sure he’d made sense. 

Ava didn’t seem to have anything else to say, anyway, so John let himself float away. 

And Ava was left trying to interpret it. Running John’s words through her mind over and over again, lost to understand the man. 

Gideon had woken her in the night, over 24 hours ago now. She had found the name John Constantine in the historical records. 

Ava had dragged herself out of sleep reluctantly and she remembered padding to the kitchen, getting a cup of coffee then going to the bridge before she would let Gideon show her what she’d found. 

“The name John Constantine was discovered in 1946 when a camp containing political prisoners was liberated. The name had been carved into the floor of a building believed to have been the infirmary.” Gideon cheerfully read the phrase that had been etched, and then burned, into the floor. “While there is no evidence of a John Constantine having been interned at the camp, I did find a Joseph Schmidt. Died January 16, 1941. Burned in a fire. There is a second entry on that same day, for Johann Schmidt. Johann and Joseph Schmidt were the names Mr. Constantine had me record on the documents he created before leaving the ship.” 

“How…” Ava felt a pain in her belly that had nothing to do with the coffee. She tried again, “Did it say how the fire happened?” 

“No, Ms. Sharpe, but there is a journal entry from an SS officer serving at that camp, written the same day. I have it displayed on the HUD.” 

Ava continued to stare at the black and white photo of an empty building. White stucco walls, bare wooden boards for a floor. The words etched hastily into the wood, charred, stained. She kept staring as if the photo would come to life, turning into a film reel that would pan up and turn, and there would be Constantine, grinning at the camera. Everything a joke. A laugh to keep Ava on her toes. But the photo didn’t change. 

“Would you like me to read it to you, Ms. Sharpe.” 

Ava had desperately wanted to say no. 

“Please.” She said, instead, her voice barely audible. 

Gideon fabricated a male voice, german accent, speaking in English. 

“The mad man and his brother died today. After the dark haired man, Joseph, had been questioned, and the light haired man, Johann, had spent the night in the snow, they were placed in the infirmary. The mad man, Johann, carved something into the floor, using ink and his own blood. I had left for only a moment. First he only carved words, and then symbols. Circles that held crosses, markings of the devil, markings of the jews. He sat in the circle and began to cry out in tongues. When I went to stop him, a force...made of light or stars, stopped me. I went to find my commanding officer but before I could return the back of the building was engulfed in flame. I wanted to tell my superiors about the man. I was afraid that they would think I had set the fire, or fallen asleep while on duty. It did not take long for us to contain the fire. It was strange. The only casualties were the brothers. Dr. Mengele will be disappointed.” 

Gideon stopped reading. “Shall I go on?” 

Ava had slapped the emergency alarm without a second thought and the rescue had begun in that moment. 

Knowing what she did, something that none of the rest of the crew knew, that John had been prepared to kill himself and the American. That they had stepped into the past moments before that had begun. Ava knew who John Constantine was. She knew the pain he could handle, the beating he could take. She knew how powerful he was. She knew that he preferred to work alone, and wasn’t one to lean on a friend unless he was absolutely desperate. So how close to breaking had John been to come that close to suicide? And how evil did that make Ava, to have abandoned him, ignored when her team had come to her concerned and justified letting him suffer. 

John had said, “Get it out.” 

It would take a lobotomy. 

***  
“There is a cruelty to any war. Man was not built to show compassion and to murder in the same breath. To kill another, a man must either have no conscience, or he must trick it. My brother-in-arms and I were captured. For days we were interrogated, beaten, starved and forced to stay awake. It was the goal of the enemy to break us. To turn us from men to worms. As men, the enemy could not hurt us and save his soul. As worms, we would have no souls to torment. There would be no vengeful spirits to haunt him. And so the enemy took away our status as Human Beings.

They took away comfort, health, sanity and used it as bait, promising a reprieve if only we would betray that which we held most dear, the sanctity of life. The enemy sought to strip away our civility, our pride, our courage, and leave us as base, simple apes. We came very close to that. But the one thing that remained in our hearts and our minds, the one thing that could not be stripped from us, was our past. 

I thought of you, America, my home, my first love. I reminded myself of what we had fought for two decades ago, over a hundred years ago. I remembered my first apple pie, my first ballgame, my first milkshake. My first kiss. I knew that you were still standing, tall and proud and safe an ocean away. And it made me strong. 

My brother-in-arms is from England. When I asked him about his home he smiled and told me about fish-n-chips, soccer games, rainy Sunday afternoons listening to the radio. He talked about the strength of his people, the fortitude. Qualities I have seen first hand. He too knew that his home would survive this conflict and be stronger for it. No matter what happened to us, we knew our legacy would be remembered. 

But there are those whose legacy will die with them. The leader of the Aryian nation has made it his goal to wipe an entire people from existence. He strives to drive them to extinction, so that man no longer remembers them. 

I charge you, America. We can not let this man succeed. 

Joe O’Hara.” 

***

Ava finished reading and her eyes traveled up to the window. Beyond it, lit only by the lights coming from the “ON AIR” sign and the console, was the station producer, Chris Rogers. His hands were busy setting up the next record and she waited patiently until he flipped a switch and nodded to her. 

Ava pushed back from the desk, her muscles still tense. She’d been nervous from the moment she sat down. She’d been certain her voice was trembling the entire time, but when she stepped out of the booth, the producer gave her a smile. 

“That was perfect, Ava. Really.” Chris told her, his hands resting on her arms. 

She gave him a wane smile and thanked him. “Joe said he would have more by tonight. He’ll bring them with him tomorrow.” 

Rogers shook his head. “I can’t believe he wants to get back to work. After what he’s been through.” 

“He’s a good man. He’s determined to see this through.” She said and the producer nodded. 

“If our numbers do what I think they’ll do after today, he’ll have all the backing he needs from here on out. Hell...the station may fly him back to Germany themselves.” 

Ava ducked her head. “Hopefully he won’t have to go back.” She said, handing the script to the shorter man before she collected her coat and purse. Chris helped her into it, then stood, holding the handwritten script like it was gold leaf. 

“Powerful stuff.” He said, his voice hushed. “Never would have imagined all this was going on over there.” 

“You and 5 billion others, mate.” John said. 

Ava looked up to see him in a suit, leaning in the frame of the door that lead to the lobby, holding a fedora in his still bandaged hands. 

“John...hell, they told me what had happened but...you’re a wreck.” Chris said, but he had a smile on his face. He had stepped toward the Brit to shake his hand, but thought better of it, gently clapping him on the shoulder instead. 

“I still feel it, sometimes, but today I’m on cloud nine.” John met Ava’s gaze. “I heard your broadcast.” He smiled softly. “Well done, luv.” 

Ava felt something soft and warm settle in her gut and she nodded to John. 

“Nate and the rest decided we should celebrate your debut with dinner and dancing at the Halcyon. Joe’s already there, making up for lost time.” John grinned then looked to the producer. “He insisted that you join us, Chris. We need to thank you for your bit in this, good and proper.” 

Rogers smiled, his chest puffing out. “I will...once I’ve finished up here. You two kids go have fun. Save me a glass of champagne.” 

John offered his arm and Ava took it. The two walked out of the studio and to a waiting cab on the street. Around them the late afternoon sun was catching a fresh powdering of snow and casting crystalline light in all directions. The streets were full of people preparing for a Friday night that they hoped would be free of bombing raids, full of laughter, and discounted drinks. John directed the cabbie to the Halcyon and sat back, glancing out the window to the kaleidoscope of faces and bodies, colors and textures. 

When the cab pulled away from the curb John handed a package wrapped in butchers paper to Ava. She took it, and stared at it for a moment before taking a breath, wetting her lips and pulling the cotton string. Inside she found two books, with clippings from newspapers sandwiched between them. The first book was a brand new copy, complete with dust cover and a sticker bearing a seal that said, “First Edition! Signed!” Ava read the title. “Behind Enemy Lines. By Joe O’Hara.” 

“That cost me about 400 Euros.” John said and he smirked when Ava looked at him in surprise. “Worth it, though.” 

Ava opened the book, spotted the section of white pages in the middle and flipped to them. She gasped at the first photo. It would be taken later that day, judging by the clothes worn by the people in the picture. She could see Mona’s profile in the background, Nate with a drink in his hand. Zari, dressed to kill, standing with Behrad. A blur behind them might have been Mick and Gary. But the focus of the photo were two men, hair cropped too short for the time period, skeletal thin, but grinning brightly at the photographer. Ava realized she wasn’t in the picture. 

“Seems you’ll be taking that picture sometime tonight, luv.” John said, his eyes dancing gleefully. “But the rest of the photos were taken by yours truly.” 

Ava flipped through the rest of them. Pictures of London after a bombing. Of the hotel. Photos of execution sites, the camps. A hastily drawn diagram showing the inside of a barrack, the inside of a camp. There were professionally taken photos of the map that Joe and John had cut into squares. Wilhelm and Getrude Steiner, standing outside their home. A mother and three children, standing in the snow outside of a barn. The photo that Ava had stared at long enough to memorize, of John’s epitaph. Ava had every intention of reading it and she closed the book, holding it tightly. 

Under Joe’s book had been a newspaper clipping, and under that another, and another. Each one showing a minor change in the timeline. A life that had been snuffed out before, had been saved, and that person had gone on to be a doctor, a teacher, an aid worker. She saw articles talking about bombed out buildings in London being bought and renovated into apartments that were reserved for refugees from German-occupied countries and victims of the bombing raids. Smaller articles that detailed the personal accounts of survivors of the Holocaust, but they were written while the Holocaust was still going on, instead of decades later. 

Ava went back to the first article and looked for the name of the author. Joe O’Hara. She flipped through, finding the same name, over and over. Joe had written them all. 

Under the articles was a second book. The cover showed a familiar grinning face, but the man was in his 80s at least. He still looked healthy, handsome, if gray haired and wrinkled. “Worth It!: The Authorized Biography of Joseph O’Hara. By…” Ava smiled. “Joanna E. O’Hara.” 

“I’m not going to say I told you so, Ava...because I would have avoided a great deal of discomfort if I’d listened to you. But I will never regret my decision, and I would have made it had you been with me or not.” 

Ava looked at him. She watched his face twist into a grin, but what took her breath from her was the look of peace in his eyes. She wondered, when had she ever seen John Constantine at peace? 

“In the end, you saved our lives. And you can take at least some of the credit for all of the things in those books and articles. They wouldn’t have happened without you doing what you did.” 

Ava’s gaze dropped back to the books, her fingers gliding over the images on the covers. She carefully wrapped the whole package back up in the paper, knowing that she couldn’t let Joe or anyone else see it. 

“Thank you, John.” She said, finally, the squeal of the taxi cab’s brakes acting as a punctuation to the statement. 

John only smiled to himself, stepping out of the cab and offering a hand to Ava. The bandages that circled his fingers had forced his first and second digits into a V shape. 

V for victory, Ava thought, before taking his hand and stepping into the waning sunlight.


End file.
